


Bleed

by Ducks, vatrixsta



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU canon, Angst, AtS S3, B/A, BtVS S6, Canon-Fixer, F/M, mush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 16:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7853353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ducks/pseuds/Ducks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vatrixsta/pseuds/vatrixsta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally Posted Valentine's Day 2003</p><p>"It may sound absurd, but don’t be naive, even heroes have the right to bleed. I may be disturbed, but won’t you concede, even heroes have the right to dream? And it’s not easy to be me."</p><p>Terrible things have happened to Buffy and Angel. They fight to help each other heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Our musical selection is "Superman (It's Not Easy)" by Five for Fighting

"I can't stand to fly.

I'm not that naïve.

I'm just out to find.

The better part of me."

 

* * *

The Los Angeles night rolled past the tinted limousine windows, like a river of stars muted in smoke.

Buffy watched it flow by... the buildings, the pavement, and the strange people. This alien world of steel, glass, concrete and pain, and wondered how it could possibly be that her gentle, beautiful lover lived here.

_'Because it's his job. Just like mine's to live on the Hellmouth. Which... really... makes them a lot more similar than different. He's Batman, I'm Supergirl, and Metropolis sucks just as bad as Gotham.'_

She had once been an LA girl herself. But that was a long time ago, when she was much tougher, both inside and out. Back when she still had hope, when the future looked bright and limitless, and the things that went 'bump' weren't her sworn duty to even know about, let alone eradicate.

The city was too jagged, too cold for her, now. She came only to see him, only to experience the harsh ugliness of the city softened through his loving eyes. Without him, the barren landscape only made her feel raw.

Of course... there wasn't a lot that didn't make her feel raw, these days.

She turned away from the smoky glitter and buried her nose in one of the dozens of bouquets of sterling roses Angel had left in the car for her, then read the parchment card for the thousandth time by the dim dashboard light.

_'Tonight we begin again. Always, A.'_

She had to smile and let out a little sigh, just like every other time she'd looked at it. So, yeah, it was corny. It was sappy and hokey and so incredibly sticky-sweet that she probably got a cavity every time she read it.

But that was Angel... the soul of a poet possessed of a heart overflowing with incredible grace. He loved her, and often said that he refused to be afraid to say so anymore, however flowery the sentiment.

She often found herself wondering – how had she ever thought she could do without him? He'd told her she could, all those years ago. More, that she should. All her friends and family agreed. Hell, she had even convinced *herself* that she didn't need him, didn't want him, for a long, long time.

Well... mostly.

'And look how that little cruise down De Nial turned out.'

Her smile slipped away as eyes the color of a stormy sky blotted out the vision of the small love token in her hands. She started to shake – some weird instinct for self-protection that she couldn't fight or deny, even after all this time.

It had been entirely absent when she *really* needed it, but now the panic popped up at every possible – and incredibly inconvenient – opportunity.

((You belong in the darkness, with me.))

The shaking got worse, and Buffy clutched the card so fiercely that it crumpled in her grip.

'No. Not now. Not tonight.'

She clamped her jaw shut tight... tried to recall the deep breathing exercises Angel had encouraged her to start using again whenever the panic threatened. The surety that stole on her from time to time, that she was helplessly tumbling back to the bottom of that pit of despair she had only just begun to claw her way out of.

Like her grave...

"No," she whimpered aloud. "No, please."

"You all right, miss?"

The driver’s voice shattered her anxiety like a pane of glass. Her lungs relaxed, started taking in oxygen again, the trembling abated, and the visions of chains, bruises and pain blew away like vamp dust on the artificial breeze of the limousine’s air conditioning.

"Fine. Thanks," she heard herself say – her voice surprisingly strong and steady. "Just nervous."

"Big Valentine’s date?"

Her smile returned, and her inner musings now filled with visions of chocolate brown eyes shining with love, loyalty, and friendship.

"The biggest," she told him.

And it was true. Tonight was The Night. The night that she and Angel had planned and talked through for months. The moment of truth:

Could she make love anymore? Or had her foray into self-destructive debauchery with Spike ruined her to a lover’s gentle touch forever? There were lines she and Angel had not tried to cross in all this time... their wounds too fresh to handle the blessings and responsibilities of physical intimacy. But tonight, they would try.

‘And it’s not just any lover,’ she reminded herself as she picked up the roses again. ‘Angel.’

Angel. Sweet, giving, supportive Angel. Wounded, grieving, heartbroken Angel. He was torn down the middle... gutted, just like she was after... what happened to his son.

She closed her eyes against that pain... the wrenching of her heart in his name. How she wanted tonight to be perfect for him. To give him back some small part of the joy he had lost when...

‘Okay. Enough with the dark places. Ow!’

She pricked her finger on a stray thorn, and instinctively popped the wounded digit into her mouth. Tasted the blood, and thought...

Yeah, so... she and Angel had weathered more than their fair share of pain – be it self-inflicted, wreaked on one another, or the result of forces entirely outside themselves. But with that pain – no, above and beyond it – their friendship was a thing of pure beauty. A beacon in darkness so thick and heavy, neither of them thought they would ever find their way out again.

But he had taken those first steps. Come into the dark, and found her. And tonight, she wanted to thank him for it -- her neuroses be damned. And Spike be double damned, if he really was dust, as she sometimes suspected when he'd vanished mysteriously a few nights after her talk with Angel.

There had been no beauty, with Spike. Nothing pure or good. Just blood and broken furniture, the need to hurt and rend and destroy, and a burning self-loathing that she couldn’t seem to shake, even now.

It was so hard, telling Angel about that. So hard on so many levels – the two vampires’ gory past, the low point that she’d had to plunge to in order to make the idea of having sex with a soulless, evil demon even fathomable, without ever trying to reach out to Angel for help. The fact that she’d *liked* it, in some – better-forgotten – part of herself. She had been sure that he would be hurt... furious... that he would turn his back on her and walk away... again. The same sadistic part of her that had once wanted Spike wanted him to. And the rest of her was certain she deserved it.

But Angel had surprised her. Though later, she would admit to herself that she never really believed he would stand in judgment of what she’d done. All of those things she feared happened but the last. He wasn’t hurt *by* her (much)... he wasn’t angry *at* her... but *for* her.

That was what made her remember – like a blinding religious experience – just why she loved him so much. He had a *soul* -- and that beautiful soul bled for her pain. It reached out even through its own torment, touched hers, and made her feel again. And ever since, he had systematically been breaking down that tough hide she had pulled around herself after her forced resurrection.

She didn’t think about Heaven much anymore. That was a different torture, and one that she couldn’t face yet. Like Angel and his memories of Hell, her mind just couldn’t process what she had had – and lost, because her friends loved her too much. And like Angel, to keep walking through the minefield of their earthly every day, she had to forget.

Buffy was sure some part of her would never forgive her friends... but she had buried that, right along with the memories.

So, for six months, she and her first (only) lover had worked to put the shattered pieces of themselves and each other back together again. It had been a long, hard road, so far, and she knew they weren’t even close to done yet.

But they would walk it together. That was what they had to do... heal. Whether they felt strong or not, the world still depended on them.

*****

"I’m more than a bird,  
I’m more than a plane.  
I’m more than some  
Pretty face beside a train,  
And it’s not easy to be me.

***

The limo pulled up in front of the Beverly-Wilshire, and the doorman hustled to help her out as she stepped to the curb with her duffle bag (carrying only a couple of stakes, rather than her usual portable arsenal, at Angel’s insistence. "This weekend is about us," he’d reminded her, "Not what we do."). As she moved away, the driver opened the passenger side window and gave her a friendly grin.

"I’ll have the flowers delivered to your home address on Monday, all right, miss?"

She would have smiled back, she was sure... but he was blond, with finely chiseled, starving-actor features and blue, blue eyes.

She managed a half-civil, "Thanks," but that was all.

"Miss Summers?" he called once again, and Buffy turned to look at him just in time to catch his wink. "If you don’t mind my saying so... you’ll knock him dead."

She did smile, then – bold and bright, like the future Angel’s love had once again begun to convince her was possible, even for freaks like them -- so riddled with holes, a Mack truck could easily drive through.

"Too late," she replied lightly, and followed the doorman inside.


	2. Chapter 2

"I wish that I could cry  
Fall upon my knees  
Find a way to lie  
About a home I’ll never see..."

***

It was too dark in this damn room.

Angel patted down his pockets until he came up with the lighter he'd brought with him. He picked up each of the small votive candles (ten in all) on the table in turn, lighting them and cursing as he singed his finger on the last two.

That was much better. The room was now filled with a healthy, natural glow.

He'd rented a room at the Beverly Wilshire. He'd asked Buffy her preference, and she'd confessed a childhood yearning to stay at the place she'd always imagined movie stars stayed. Another of her desires -- a trip to Rodeo Drive, complete with the pocket money to really do it up right -- would be in the cards for tomorrow, courtesy of a big favor called into David Nabbit.

Cordelia had offered to accompany Buffy (out of the goodness of her heart and in no way in an attempt to cash in on the shopping spree, Angel was sure) during the daytime portion of her outing, leaving Angel the precious hours in the night. It seemed he'd been relegated to the dark parts of Buffy's life for as long as he could remember.

Now, though, he was determined to make those hours as bright as possible. Speaking of . . .

It was too bright now.

Quickly blowing out all ten candles, he paced over to the bed, checking things meticulously. Pale mauve cotton sheets (from his own bed -- the inferior linens slept on by a thousand starlets the hotel supplied would not touch Buffy's skin tonight) were in place. Champagne was on ice, the food was keeping warm on the banquette, there was non-alcoholic soda if she didn't want to indulge, and a mixed CD, featuring Buffy's favorite music, playing low in the corner.

A dozen different varieties of chocolate had been supplied by the hotel staff (Will there be anything else, Mr. Angel? You've already spent nearly a thousand dollars for one night -- perhaps a few twenties to light on fire?) and he was having an extremely difficult time thinking of anything but eating them off of Buffy's firm, round belly.

Damn it, he thought, too dark again.

Everything had to be perfect. It all had to be . . . perfect. He sighed, abandoning the task of lighting the ninth candle again as he looked around the room. It would never be completely perfect, he knew, because they were both carrying too much baggage.

((Way too much baggage. More baggage than any soul should ever have to bear . . .))

Shaking the disquieting thought off, Angel stared at the partly lit, partly unlit candles. Maybe he should just blow them all out, make the room dark. He could see in the dark just fine. . .

Of course, Buffy didn't have Night Predator Vision and the last thing he wanted to do was remind her that he did. Vampires had become an even touchier subject for her than they ever had been before. Ironically, what being born to kill them hadn't done to her, being involved with one (without benefit of a soul) had managed: Buffy had lost a big part of herself to the darkness.

Angel didn't want to remind her of darkness tonight. Hell, it had taken him an hour and a half to choose his ensemble, finally deciding on 'Normal Guy' duds, consisting of a white dress shirt (untucked) and a pair of black slacks. The Great Sock Debate (to remove or not to remove) had been waged nearly an hour before. Deciding that it was not too presumptuous to greet Buffy at the door barefoot (they *were* in this hotel for an illicit rendezvous; that was why people who already lived in LA got very nice rooms at the Beverly Wilshire), he'd shucked his socks and shoes, then immediately begun lighting candles.

Just because they both knew why they were here, he reasoned, no need to hit her over the head with it. He ordered himself to breathe, however unnecessary it was. The act of pulling deep breaths into one's lungs was meditative. After a few reps, he felt almost normal. Which was amazing, considering that after the events of the past year, he hadn't thought he'd ever feel normal again. He'd completely expected to greet a sunrise after . . .

His mind shied away from it. Thinking of his son, his heart, caused the ever-present ache in his chest to bloom into a knife, sharp and cold, carving him open from the inside out. He was dead, but still walking, and were it not for Buffy, for her love and her hero's heart, her tenderness and willingness to trust him, to make him trust her . . . he would surely be hollow.

The past year had been a whirlwind, of that he was certain. First, he had learned that the love of his life was dead. He had died with her in that moment. The only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that he *had* to live; that there were people depending on him now, that he couldn't abandon them again, or waste away . . . and so, in that sense, his family had saved him. In his self-imposed isolation, Angel had found solace. His commitment to Buffy's memory, to continuing the fight they had waged together had ultimately fueled his desire to go on. He would live for her, because Dawn had told him (via a letter Cordelia had managed to get to the monastery) that that was what Buffy had wanted for the people she'd loved; her last request.

More than that, then, he'd decided, more than just live, he would thrive. He had wished, more than anything, that he had been able to save her, or, barring that, that he had at least been allowed to die with her. But it hadn't happened.

So many things hadn't happened . . .

It was easy to discern now, with the luxury of hindsight, how he had managed to think he'd fallen in love with Cordelia. Fred planted the idea in his head and it was so simple -- Cordelia. Of course.

He'd known Buffy was alive -- had seen her, touched her, held her briefly. She had been different, though, and at the time, he'd been so shocked, so confused, that he'd mistaken the difference in her for something different between them. And besides, it was still so impossible for them. Everything they had ever had standing between them was still there, still a living, breathing entity and she was so . . . lost.

For a moment, he'd tried to save her, like he tried to save all of them, but no matter what he said, how he tried to coax, she'd refused to admit that anything was wrong. He'd been so disconcerted, so frightened that she wasn't really there at all . . .that he'd let her convince him that she would be fine. And he'd returned to his home, and his life, and his family . . . and he'd tried to forget.

Forgetting was easier when you had something else to focus on. And if Cordelia was anything, she was simple to focus on. She was born to be the center of attention and the fact that she no longer craved that attention on a daily basis made her all the more effortless to love. She was bright, brave (often foolishly so), and she *loved* him. Not like a lover, but as a friend. As the first true friend she'd ever made in her life, in the same way he'd loved her. And he'd blurred that because he'd wanted to.

There was no risk with Cordelia, no undying love and devotion, no terrible heartache. He could be the Angel everyone seemed to want -- happy (but not TOO happy), open . . . Hell, he even had a child now. Someone to set a good example for. His son should see his father in a healthy, loving relationship. He should know how it works, so that when he grew up . . .

And there was the pain again, sharp and sudden, gutting him anew. Except that I don't have a son, he thought, a numb sort of anguish creeping through his heart for the millionth time.

He'd realized a lot of things after Holtz had burned his shiny new life to ash. He'd found that Wes, Gunn, Fred and Cordy *were* family, in the truest sense of the word, and that no matter how far he tried to push them away (and oh, how he'd tried), this time, they would not let him fall. They'd all learned something from that disaster with Darla, it seemed.

Angel had discovered a few things over the past seven months, too. He had discovered that losing his son was more painful than remembering all the people he'd killed in over two centuries. He'd ascertained that Cordelia was the best thing he had in his life, and that it had absolutely nothing to do with something as frivolous as romance, or as fleeting as a schoolboy crush. She'd held him like a mother would hold an inconsolable child, even though he had been still and unresponsive in her arms and when he'd emerged from the catatonic state he'd slipped into to save his sanity, his soul had begun to scream again -- because it needed its other half. It needed what family and friends would never heal.

It needed Buffy. And she was alive.

And suddenly, things were very, very uncomplicated again.

They had all argued against it, of course, Cordelia with her blunt honesty ("She'll break you again!"), Wesley with his cautious approaches ("Do you really think such a tumultuous undertaking is best under the circumstances?"), Fred with her sweet, sweet heart ("Maybe you should just try to take her to a movie first before you drive all that way and declare undying devotion."), and Gunn with his Spartan approach to life ("You don't need a woman. What you need to do is get drunk and take your big vampire fury out on some bad uglies.").

What they all really meant, of course, was 'We're worried about you, Angel; we don't want to see you get hurt.' And it was sweet and wonderful and he loved them dearly for it, but in the end, he'd done what needed to be done and they'd let him go, with only one proviso -- he would not go alone.

So Cordelia and Wesley accompanied him, under the pretense of visiting old friends (though Angel knew that neither of them were overly excited to see anyone in Sunnydale again; his heart swelled for a moment at how much he meant to them) and for the first time since the first time he'd seen her alive -- he'd *seen* Buffy. After driving all night, stopping so Cordelia could pee -- twice -- Angel had finally, really seen her, just as he had so long ago, standing outside in the sunshine, sucking the life out of a lollipop. Literally. He'd been sitting in the shade of his car, watching as she ate one of those little dum-dum suckers with Dawn outside the Magic Box.

And, just like the first time, he had found hope again, wrapped up in five foot five inches of petite blonde perfection. Her heart called out to him again, and this time, he swore, he *would* keep it safe.

It was not magic. There were no sudden, blinding fixes. The grief still gnawed at him. But for a moment, there was that damnable hope again. Hope that there would come a day when his every moment would not be haunted by what he could have done, should have done, to save Connor. Had it been the right decision to leave Holtz alive? Had his inaction, his mercy, his *guilt*, murdered his boy? Buffy had not been the first to tell him that those thoughts were unproductive, but it was her counsel that he finally heard.

Her experiences since her resurrection troubled him on a number of levels. The fact that she'd felt unable to confide in her friends, for fear of causing them undo pain, he'd understood completely. It was after they'd learned the truth about her time in the interim that he'd been puzzled by her refusal to talk to them. Moreover, he'd been shocked that she'd managed to keep all the things she'd been slowly telling him inside, without a soul to share her burden.

Then one night, Buffy had finally broken down and confessed. She had not had a soul to share her secrets with, but there had been an all-too-willing body.

What she'd told him about Spike wasn't much; she'd glossed over the gory details. But what she'd revealed had sent him into a murderous rage. He'd taken a lot of his grief over Connor out on Spike the night Buffy had finally told him the depths of her "relationship" with the other vampire.

Spike hadn't been able to walk for a day or two, and when he'd finally healed enough, he'd sprinted out of town faster than he did after that disaster with Acathla. His love, it seemed, did not extend beyond his natural instinct for self-preservation.

Maybe if he just lit half of the candles . . .

Thoughts of the room's ambiance turned Angel's attention firmly back to Buffy's imminent arrival, for which he was grateful. These morose thoughts were going to drive him crazy ((er)) if he wasn't careful.

After blowing two more candles out, Angel was giving the room a final look-over, anticipating the night to come (not to mention cautiously allowing for the possibility that Buffy might not be as prepared for tonight as she'd led him -- and herself -- to believe) when--

There was a knock at the door. He stubbed his toe against the little food cart in his hurry to answer it and he swore. Stifling the curse, he hobbled his way to the door, took another few deep breaths outside of it, then turned the handle, letting the door swing open. Standing before him was a vision that, had he possessed it, would have stolen his breath away.

"Hi," he greeted softly, hoarsely. He wanted to grab her to him, strip her naked and get lost in her for a century or so. He tamped down the urge. Barely. Only the mantra of "she's not ready, go slow, she needs you to be a gentleman" kept the rabid sex-fiend that still lived inside his skin at bay.

He should have blown out all the candles. When he was able to see her so clearly, when it was so obvious how exquisitely beautiful she was . . .

She seemed to relax a little when she saw how nervous he was. Good. He would stand on his head and juggle if it made her more comfortable.

"Hi," she greeted back. God, she had luminous eyes. Like the sky and the green mountains of home all rolled up together. Maybe it wouldn't be so complicated, after all. He would be content to stand here all night and gape at her like an idiot . . . "So . . . do you think maybe I could come in?"

There was, of course, a distinction between gaping at her *like* an idiot, and actually *being* an idiot. Angel feared he'd just crossed that line.

"Oh. Sorry. Yes. I mean -- come in." He stepped away from the door ((how could I have not realized I was in her way?)), berating himself for a moment. Then he got another look at her and could think of nothing else except, "You look . . . great." ((Understatement))


	3. Chapter 3

"It may sound absurd  
But don’t be naïve  
Even heroes have the right to bleed.  
I may be disturbed  
But won’t you concede  
Even heroes have the right to dream?  
And it’s not easy to be me."

***

"Thanks." Buffy walked in and looked around at the amazing slice of...

No, no use going there, either, although she knew for certain by now that what she felt with him -- all he gave to her – was probably as close as she was likely to get until the next time she died. Sometimes, she wasn't even sure about that anymore. Maybe you only get one ticket to Heaven, she often thought. And the agony of that possibility had kept her from telling Angel just where she had been. "Wow. Angel, this is..." She turned to glance at him. "This is amazing."

All these years later, even after everything they'd survived, and all the roads they'd walked alone, looking at him still took her breath away, no less than it had the first time she set eyes on him one cool fall night in the alley behind the Bronze.

((Is there a problem, ma'am?))

"I hoped you'd like it." He gave her a tentative smile. "Um . . . how was the drive?" He realized how lame that was, but he didn’t know what else to say or do other than kiss her, and he wanted to let her make the first move, not rush her. Even more than he wanted her, he wanted her to be comfortable.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "It was the exact same drive I've made every other weekend for the past six months. Except for the 'being driven' rather than 'driving' part." A wry grin snuck across her lips. "Nice to see I'm not the only one terrified into total asininity. Is that a word?"

He laughed, a bit anxiously. "I, uh . . think I passed terrified an hour ago. I've re-lit those candles six times." He looked a bit sheepish. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?" He peered down at her bag. "Do you want to change clothes?" He started backpedaling. "Not that you don't look beautiful, because you do, you always do and I really haven't been this nervous since . . . I want to say the last time we were in this position, but I don't think I was even this nervous then."

She couldn't help but laugh, and just to be helpful, handed him her bag. "No... I mean... yes. Wow. That's a lot of topics to cover in one reply. Um... no, I don't need to change. Yes, I could eat, and yes, I'm also thirsty."

Swallowing, she trailed off as she remembered their first-first time... she hadn't been nervous at all. More... hungry... desperate to be close to him. Close enough that he could never almost die on her again, and she would always know he was safe... "And me either. I mean... I wasn't... nervous at all."

That was another profound truth that his leaving had forced her to shove from her mind for fear the memory of it would break her once and for all - she had never been afraid when she was with him. Not of anything. That was why she had finally been able to break down and tell him about Spike. He would *never* judge... not the way she'd judged herself... or the way she feared her friends and family would have. And he hadn't. He'd just held her and told her the truth (as he saw it, anyway) -- Spike took advantage of her when she was weak. He cut her down when she was already wounded and bleeding. He played her weaknesses, pushed all her darkest buttons, when she was least able to say no.

She knew it wasn't even close to that simple... but that part, she'd never told him. The part about her demon - the one under her skin. How could she, when he already had the burden of his own to deal with? How could she tell him that the woman he thought was so wonderful was a lie?

And then, Spike had mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again. She wondered, sometimes, if Angel had killed him. Sometimes she felt a little guilty thinking he had -- after all, Spike had never done anything she didn't let him do... didn't fully participate in.

But on the other hand... so much of her had wanted the platinum vampire dead, but had never been able to raise the stake to do it herself. There was some grim satisfaction that he might have gotten what she should have given him a long time ago. A poetic justice in who had finally ended his reign of fear and manipulation. The Sire of his Sire... one of his own blood kin.

She never asked Angel what happened.

"Let me take your coat," he suggested softly.

Slowly, she unbuttoned her long leather jacket, slipping it off to reveal an ankle -length, sheer dress of deep emerald green silk. She'd chosen it for the cut... the way the neckline plunged subtly almost to her belly button, the back just to her waist. She'd thought it was sexy... suggestive... something a healthy, whole woman might wear to please the man she loved on Valentine's Day.

Now she mostly felt exposed...sort of like she was standing in traffic naked. But even so, the gleam in his eye... somewhere between 'fight,' 'flight,' and 'rend at seams and devour' before he turned away to lay it across the back of a chair, gave her a little rush of power she hadn't felt in a very, very long time.

But not enough to make her comfortable. She cast her gaze away, blushing.

He moved a little closer to her, still wary of infringing upon her personal space *too* much. She was giving off run-like-a-rabbit vibes and he was fairly certain he would die if she ran from him. He swallowed deeply, trying to grasp onto some thread of control. "Nice dress," he managed to croak out.

She gave him a shy half-smile. "Thanks. It was either this or the crotchless black leather catsuit." She winced at her own tacky joke. Taking a deep breath, she closed a bit more of the distance between them, and forced herself to look deeply into his shining mahogany eyes. She instantly found the love that always burned there and latched on to it like the lifeline that it was. Told herself: there's nothing to be afraid of. Not here.. not with him. This was Angel -- he would never do ANYTHING she didn't fully and truly want him to do. They had talked about this... a lot. They wanted to make love, but they didn't want to send her into screaming fits of trauma like the first few times they had come close. So last month they had agreed -- Valentine's Day. Slow and Easy. No pressure.

Of course, she didn't really think that slow and easy was supposed to translate into standing around gawking at one another all night like a couple of morons on Quaaludes, either. And the incredibly romantic setting he had created in the obviously very expensive hotel room had "pressure" written all over it.

"Angel..."

"I know." Very gently, he reached out and brushed the hair back from her face. "We just have to . . ." He swallowed again. "Go slow. Very, very slow." His other hand moved up to gently stroke her cheek with the backs of his knuckles. "We'll be all right. It'll all work out. Hey . . .it's us, right? How can it not?"

"Was that supposed to be ironic?" she asked, rolling her eyes even as she instinctively leaned into his touch with a little sigh. Then she opened her eyes and looked up into his once more. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."

"No, you're right." He frowned a little. "Things haven't always . . . " He laughed. "I was going to say 'gone smoothly for us' and, well . . ." He continued stroking her face, her hair, soft, languid movements meant to calm her. "But we're here. After everything, we're still standing and we're together. That has to count for something."

She smiled... a real one, this time. "It counts for everything. It's just... I feel like such an idiot, you know?" There was an urge bubbling through her... to step back... to move away from a caress that might start out gentle, but turn violent in the blink of an eye. She forced herself to stay put, but couldn't seem to move to touch him in return. Tears welled in her eyes. "I'm 23 years old. I've loved you for as long as I can remember. This shouldn't be so..." She gave her head a little shake. "I don't know. I wanted... I want this to be... good. For you, I mean. Not like some sex therapy exercise, but... the way it's supposed to be. The way I've always dreamed of. But... It's like I've forgotten what to do."

"Buffy . . ." He cupped her face between his hands, making sure she was looking him in the eye. "You could never be anything short of amazing for me." His thumbs gently rubbed little circles over her cheekbones. "Now . . . Are you hungry? Besides enough chocolate to feed a small army, I have another surprise for you."

Her face lit up. "Ooh! A surprise? And chocolate? Color me ready for dinner."

At least they weren't getting right to The Sex, she thought.

He led her over to the small dining table in the corner lit with -- you guessed it -- half a dozen candles. He held out her chair for her, and then turned to a little cart behind him. Wheeling it over, he whipped off the cover with a flourish. "For Madam's enjoyment this evening, we have -- popcorn, individual mini-cheese pizzas, seafood quiche, and Dr. Pepper."

Her eyes went wide. "I have no words." She looked up at him with unabashed adoration in her eyes. "I knew there was a reason why I love you more than life itself." And ouch to another inappropriate reference... but if she waited to suddenly grow an etiquette gland, they'd be here until the end of the next century. Or at least... he would... with her bones. And GOD couldn't she think of something less morbid? She scowled at herself.

He smiled gently at her and sat across the table. He poured them both a glass of Dr. Pepper out of the liter bottle and he sipped his slowly, awaiting her choice of treat.

"How's Dawn?" he inquired politely.

Buffy took a few pizzas and put them on the elegant plate, forced to grin at the inconsistency. So Angel -- thoughtful and sweet, down to earth and elegant all at once. Not to mention as good -- if not better -- to eat as the small smorgasbord between them. Ooh! A positive sex thought! The wattage of her smile rose.

"She's a big pain in my ass. As usual." She popped one of the pizzas in her mouth and quickly devoured it. "God, that's good. Is this . . . gourmet pizza?" Instead of waiting for a response, she prattled on, "Anyway . . . you should see this new guy she's dating. He's got like, every possible protruding body part *pierced*. Probably protruding parts that shouldn't *be* pierced. But I guess . . . at least this one isn't a vampire." Her gaze shot up to his, horrified. "I didn't . . . I mean . . ."

He smiled at her, amused and captivated all at once. "I know what you meant," he assured her gently. "I also understand that I'm the vampire exception, not the rule." He winced a little. "*Every* part?"

She shrugged, choosing not to say her 'OH MY GOD YES YOU ARE AND I SHOULD KNOW THE DIFFERENCE' thought aloud... for once. "You know kids these days. Can't seem to stop from mutilating themselves in every possible disgusting way. How about you? How's your gang?"

"Good," Angel replied, fondly thinking of his 'gang', and trying *not* to think of a brown-eyed boy who would never be "one of the kids today". "Gunn and Fred are getting serious. I think Wesley's about to kill himself, though. He's been sleeping on Cordelia's couch. She says he's bumming Dennis out."

"Aw... poor Wes. Always the bridesmaid, never the..." she smirked. "Forget it. Why doesn't Cordy introduce him to some of the Rich, Righteous and Powerful she's mixing it up with lately? I mean... she can't possibly date *all* the influential philanthropists in LA, right? Especially not the female ones."

"She tried, actually," Angel replied. "But... I think Wes got burnt out on socialites who can't accept the often-dangerous life we lead when Virginia broke up with him. That cut a lot deeper than he'll admit, even to himself, I think." He looked rueful. "Not that Cordelia's having much luck with the affluent and dynamic, either. She's been complaining that they're all shallow, self-involved narcissists with no clue as to what's really plaguing the world." He chuckled. "She does at least realize the irony. I think she's happier at home with Dennis, anyway."

"Which is a really weird place I can't even begin to go to," Buffy chuckled. "Well, at least you didn't have to explain the whole kettle-black concept to her." She trailed off for a moment while she cut herself a piece of quiche, set it on her plate, and then stared at it. "Giles said to say hello. And that if you broke my heart again, he would personally fly back here and... I think he said 'flay you from head to foot.' And a lot of other torture terms I'm not really..." She stopped again... because she now knew far more than she should about torture. As Angel also did. She looked up at him, and worried her bottom lip. "Do you think there'll ever be a time when every other subject that comes up doesn't pour salt in a gaping wound?"

"I used to think no," he answered after a moment. "That the best I could hope for was to dull the sting." He reached across the table and took one of her hands in his, holding it gently, using her almost as a talisman. "We're raw all over, Buffy. It just . . . as lame as it sounds, it just takes time. There's a lot that we both have to heal from. But I bet someday we'll be able to sit down and have an entire conversation without having to fight back the urge to cry." He smiled, genuinely, because he really did believe himself. Optimism was something he'd lost after Connor's death, something Buffy was beginning to help him feel again.

She squeezed his hand. "I hope so. I keep thinking... today will be better. I won't have a minor freak out every time I see a blond vampire. I won't have nightmares. I won't cry when I think of everything you... had to go through. But it hasn't happened yet." She looked at him -- really looked at him -- for a long time. "I'm glad we... or rather, you... were smart enough to know that we needed each other. I just wish it hadn't taken so long."

"Me too." He cleared his throat, releasing her hand. "Eat. You must be starving." He looked pointedly at her too-sharp collarbones.

A flash of defensive anger rushed through her. "Right. With the eating. Because the eating is so much easier than the small talk that plows us under with the Big Rubble Pile of Pain." Her tone was a little snappier than she meant it to be, but she was sick of people telling her to eat all the time. How the Hell was she supposed to eat if she wasn't hungry?

Although... she had managed to demolish two mini-pizzas and a piece of quiche already, without even thinking. He was magick like that. She reached for a fistful of popcorn to top it off and munched with testy gusto. Another one of her new, fun foibles -- incredible mood swings, like Slayer menopause or something. She felt bad for taking it out on Angel... but he was here. Here for her like nobody else had ever been. He wouldn't hold it against her.

Popcorn. Soda. More popcorn. The rhythm of eating was soothing, and gave her time to try and figure out a way that this night could end in anything but a total disaster.

She interrupted her mini feeding frenzy to watch him concentrating intently on his Dr. Pepper, like he'd never seen anything so fascinating in 250 years. "Sorry."

"Don't be." He looked up at her. "I know this is hard for you. I'm supposed to make it easier. I'm sorry if I'm not." He shook his head. "I'm supposed to save souls. It's what I do. And yet every time it's someone close to me . . ." He gazed at her, marveling that she was "close to him" again. That she was very nearly the center of his universe once more. And that scared the Hell out of him, because they'd screwed it up so royally the last time. He was positive he wouldn't survive it again, which wouldn't be so bad, except that this time she was too fragile. Buffy. Fragile. It was so incongruous it took him a moment to puzzle it out. But she was. And he would slowly bleed to death if it spared her further pain.

"I get lost," he admitted at last. "All I want to do is make it better and I'm not sure that I can."

"It's not your job to 'save' me, Angel. Not to get all Dr. Phil on you or anything, but... I have to save myself. Just that you're... here... in my life, I mean. That's all I need." She forced a sad little smile. "Gee, it's fun to be all screwed up together, isn't it? Better than dinner and a show any day." She hated the pain in his eyes... hated that self-doubt that still hung around him like a dark cloud. He had done so much... come so far... survived things far worse than she could even imagine. After all, how could dying and coming back to life even begin to hold a candle to the pain of losing a child you never thought you’d have in the first place? She hated herself for hurting him more. Taking a deep breath, she reclaimed his hand from across the table.

"Besides, you did save me. You save me every time I'm near you. If you hadn't come when you did..." She exhaled, her breath like her soul’s exhaust, poisoned with frightening memories. "I don't know what would have happened. I can't ever ask for more from you. The only reason I still have a soul at all is because of you, you know? I know I don't... I can't... tell you everything. But... Spike used to..." she closed her eyes, unable to stop the memories from coming now that they had begun. How did he do that, just with his presence? How did he break down all of her sturdily built walls and set all her secrets free?

"He used to talk about you, sometimes. He... liked to hear how he was... different...better. And sometimes... I'd tell him, because that made the whole thing easier. And harder. I hated thinking about you when I was with him... it just seemed so wrong. But... sometimes thinking of you was the only way I didn't just... disappear."

"I'm glad you didn't disappear," he confided quietly, trying to smile, when all he really wanted to do was hunt Spike down and kill him slowly. "And I'm glad you had something to comfort you. I hate thinking of you with him, wondering if my imagination is underestimating what you went through, or overcompensating it."

She gave a little shrug, completely at a loss how to answer that. "I guess that depends on what you're thinking. It all seems worse than I can imagine." She slammed the little mental door shut in her mind. "Okay, you know what? Tonight is supposed to be about you and me. Nobody else is allowed. We are healthy, perfectly normal people, period." It came out weaker than she meant, and her voice trembled at the end, but damnit! She'd let Spike ruin too much of her life already. This was supposed to be a new one... one where there was only room for one vampire in her mind and heart... and in her bed. "Right?"

He stared at her for a moment, the nodded decisively. "Dance with me," he said firmly. A second later, he stood and held out his hand to her. He looked like he wanted to say something else, then just repeated, softer, "Dance with me."


	4. Chapter 4

Up, up and away...  
Away from me  
But it’s all right.  
You can all sleep sound tonight.  
I’m not crazy...  
Or anything.

* * *

Buffy nodded and took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet and into the shelter of his arms. God... she always forgot how big he was between the times that they saw one another. How warm she felt in his embrace, even though his body was cold. She closed her eyes and laid her head against his shoulder. "I love you, you know. No matter how bi-polar I get. Even if I can't... you know. But I guess that wouldn't exactly be new for us, would it?"

"I know you," he murmured, holding her securely in his arms as they began to sway slowly. "You're just trying to take some of the heat off of me." He pressed a kiss to the top of her hair. "We went without sex for a long time, Buffy. It was the knowing that we both could, that we wanted to, that it would be beautiful and perfect until it suddenly wasn't that nearly killed us. This . . ." His hands slowly began smoothing up and down her back. "This is different. I'd wait forever for you."

Buffy sighed... a sound half-contentment and half-fear. "I know you would. That makes this so much easier. Which, if you think about it, is really scary, considering how *not* easy it is." She looked away sheepishly, but a moment later, felt a ghost of her old smart-ass grin make its way to her lips as she looked up at him once more. "Besides... I'm sort of psyched to see you naked again. Did I just say that out loud?" She blinked coquettishly.

If he weren't dead, he would have blushed. "You did," he confirmed, trying not to peek down her bodice. Visions of Naked Buffy had been tormenting him for months; Visions of Naked Buffy had been threatening his sanity from the moment he saw her in that . . . well, it wasn't really a "dress". "Swath of diaphanous fabric" came to mind, but certainly not dress. "I've told you how lovely you look tonight, haven't I?"

"I think the word was great," she teased softly, pressing herself a little closer. "But I'll take lovely, too. You look really... um... good? too." She rolled her eyes at her lame attempt at a compliment. "Okay, so you look hot enough to melt steel. How's that?"

His internal blush meter climbed even higher and he was actually *grateful* for his lack of blood pressure for a change. Deciding to take the focus off of him, he spun her away from him, then brought her back, pressed closer to his body. He held her firmly for a moment, then smirked mischievously and dipped her over his arm. His entire body froze for a moment as he glanced down.

"Suddenly thinking maybe upside down wasn't the best choice for this dress." He righted her again, embarrassed.

She laughed -- actually laughed out loud, and from deep in her belly as she righted her escapee breasts. "It's okay. You've seen them before." Then she realized how close they were, and wondered, other than when one of them had been consumed by hysteria . . . had they been this close, physically, for this extended a period of time since they started seeing one another again? Now, it was her turn to blush and look demurely down . . . straight at the burgeoning evidence of his arousal. She quickly averted her gaze back to his face. "This is nice. Besides the breast incident, I mean."

"I don't know. The breast incident might have been the highlight." He grinned a little to show that he was teasing.

She had to smile back, and finally, hesitantly, reached up to caress his face. God, how she loved that face. Even after all this time... after everything... she could still think of him and remember: there was some beauty, somewhere in this world, as long as he existed. "Do you think... maybe some kissing might be in order here?"

"I'd say it's mandatory at this point," he murmured solemnly. Slowly, giving her plenty of time to back away, he lowered his head to hers and gently, gently brushed his lips over hers, giving her a chance to react, one way or another.

She stiffened a little at first, but swallowed the pang of fear and tried to do nothing but feel. A deep breath, a few moments of his cool, familiar lips... and the fear was gone. Okay, not *gone* exactly, but... the gentle reverence, the soft whisper of desire she could feel flow from his mouth to hers, had to be stronger than all her ghosts... didn’t it? They’d be exorcised any minute, she was certain of it.

After a few blissful moments, he pulled away, loathe to stop, but needing to make sure she was all right. "Good?" he asked hoarsely, still swaying with her to the music.

She nodded. "Good. Really good." Taking a deep breath, she took his face between her hands and kissed him, harder this time. Just a little harder. A flash of nervousness... then the spark took. She wound her hands up behind his head, tangling them in his thick, soft hair, and pulled him closer still. She could feel every hard inch of him pressed up against her... setting a slow, easy fire to her blood. Could she go farther? One way or the other, all she could do was try. She touched his lips with the tip of her tongue.

He used every ounce of control he'd amassed in 250 years to keep from going too fast, too soon. One of his hands pressed against her lower back, the other moved to her hair, cradling the back of her head as he opened his mouth for her, let her set the pace.

"Mmmm," she moaned softly as she slipped her tongue into his mouth, tasting him for the first time in forever. The taste of breath mints -- or maybe obsessively brushed teeth -- Dr. Pepper, and Angel. She traced the long forgotten lines of his strong, straight teeth, and tentatively, softly, flicked her tongue over his.

At the touch of her tongue against his own, Angel's control was stretched somewhat. He allowed himself to play with her, to gently slide his tongue along hers, coaxing, while his fingertips began tracing slow, easy circles along her lower back.

She suckled his tongue into her mouth, drawing it gently between her teeth, then moved to nibble his lips. As she felt his response harden against her... his kiss growing just that smallest bit more fiercely, and the first throb of fire blazed between her legs... she froze, and pulled abruptly away. "I can't."

"It's okay," he soothed, panting with unnecessary breath. God, he thought, all she's done is kiss me and I'm already panting for her. His hands kept gently petting her like a wild mare he was trying to tame. "I told you, Buffy, whatever happens tonight, it's all right."

"No. It's not *all right*. God, look at me! I'm shaking!" She shoved out of his arms. "I hate him, Angel! He BROKE ME!" Her voice choked. "I love you so much, and I can't even touch you... and don't think I don't completely hate *that* deja vu! God!" She paced the room frantically, dragging her fingers through her hair over and over again.

"He hurt you," Angel voiced quietly after a moment. "He hurt you and he took something from you I could kill him a thousand times for. But he didn't break you." He walked toward her, gently took her upper arms in a firm grip, and turned her toward him. "Nothing can break you. You're way too strong for that, Buffy. If you can't believe it yourself, believe *me*."

Her bottom lip trembled as she looked up at him, desperately *needing* to believe. "I let him. I wanted him to. What does that say about me, huh?" She closed her eyes and swallowed, trying to fight back the threatening hysteria, but she didn't pull out of his grip. "I want to believe you. I do. I just don't know... if I can. Maybe I didn't come back to life wrong... but something's wrong with me now – something *I* did to *myself* -- and I don't know how to fix it."

"Maybe you can't fix it," he suggested quietly, once again brushing hair back from her face. "Maybe it just needs to heal." He debated with himself for a moment, then came to a decision. "Lie down on the bed."

Her eyes snapped open, and the fear took over once more. "What?"

"Relax," he said softly. "There's nothing to be afraid of here and nothing will happen unless you want it to. There will be no coercion, no inappropriate touching . . ." He smiled. "Well...maybe a *little* inappropriate touching." He rubbed his hand up and down her arm for a moment. "I think we're going about this all wrong. Trying to pretend nothing's wrong. Something *is* wrong. Let's not jump into the deep end without knowing how to swim first. Let's . . . wade. Lie down on the bed. I'll lie down next to you. That's all."

Despite her own fear, she couldn’t help but think, with a stab of compassionate pain, how much he sounded like a father. She looked warily at the bed, then up at him. "Like... sex floaties?"

((Oh, yeah, that's great, Buffy. Talk about more things that will remind him of babies.))

"I wouldn't have put it that way, but . . ." One-liners about "blowing" each other ran through his mind and he dismissed them easily. "Game?"

She exhaled extravagantly. "Okay. Lying down I can do. I think. Maybe." She looked up at him once more. "Maybe the whole Big Night in a Hotel thing wasn't so brilliant after all, huh? I mean... it's not like we can just casually go, 'oh, hey, you want to play mahjongg?' or something to distract ourselves."

"You hated mahjongg when I tried to teach you," he pointed out lightly, taking her hand and leading her to the bed. "However, I'm sure the hotel has a gift shop where we could get a deck of cards if you'd like to play Gin."

"Ooh! Gin! I like Gin. But...not the drinking kind. Tastes like Pine Sol. Blech."

((Shut up! Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup!))

Buffy stopped as they reached the enormous bed, and stared at it as though it were a creature that wanted to eat her. Then she looked at him, and... well... the eating thoughts went in a different sort of direction. She flopped down on the bed and scooted up to stretch out, then patted the empty space beside her. "We can pretend it's a slumber party. Or... not." She grinned.

He slowly sat down on the bed, and then scooted up so they were even with each other. He propped his head on his arm, sitting up on his elbow to regard her. "I can order more food. We can get a VCR up here and watch bad movies all night long, if that's what you want."

"You don't know how tempted I am to take you up on that," she sighed. "No... I need to do this. I want to do this. If we don't now... who knows if we ever will?" After a moment, something dawned on her. "Angel... you know it's not you, right? You know... I do want you."

"I know that, yes." He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "I also know . . . that it might be easier for you if I were someone else. If I wasn't *what* I was. I know that makes it more difficult for you."

"That's not..." she automatically began to deny his statement, but ultimately, couldn't do it. "That's not completely true. Especially not the "someone else" part. I don't want anyone but you. I don't think I ever really did. That you are... that... it's always been part of you. And I've always loved all of you. Spike wasn't a rotten bastard because he was a vampire. That was just his weapon."

He briefly wondered if he should correct her, that Spike sort of *was* a rotten bastard because he was a vampire . . . but ultimately, decided it wasn't worth it. They weren't here tonight for semantic arguments. Instead, he changed the subject. Barely. "When was the last time you were happy, Buffy?"

She took a deep breath. "Honestly? I don't think I remember."

"I can remember the exact day." He paused for a moment, wondering if he should get into this . . . then he looked into her eyes and realized he wanted to share everything with her and maybe, just maybe, it would help her to concentrate on something besides the monsters living in her head. "Connor was crying. It was the middle of the night; I'd been watching him sleep. I picked him up in my arms, held him against my chest, his little cheek pressed right to my skin, and . . . he stopped crying. Just because I was holding him. I don't know if I've ever felt anything like that before." He looked down at the bed. "Two days later . . ." He swallowed deeply and pushed it away. Such an easy habit. "I want that feeling back. It wasn't perfect, but . . . it was as close to it as I'm allowed to get."

Completely at a loss as to how to respond to that, she took his hand once more and held it to her heart. How selfish was she, that she could somehow think that her little psychoses -- which were, after all, of her own making -- could even come close to the pain of losing a *child*? Especially a child that Angel had never, even in his wildest dreams, believed he would be blessed with in the first place?

"I..." She blinked, fighting back tears, this time for him. "I wish I knew what to say. I can't even imagine. The happiness or..." She gave her head a little shake. "I feel really stupid when I think about what you've gone through. What you've lost. And I'm all whiny because I made a bunch of really stupid mistakes, and now I'm paying for them." Looking deeply into his eyes, and with complete sincerity, she added, "I'm so sorry. I know I say that a lot, but... I mean it. If I could take that pain away from you... I would. I would do anything."

"I know." He tightened his hold on her hand. "I don't . . . want you to feel sorry for me, or stupid. Your problems are real, Buffy, and they aren't made any less so by mine." He looked a little helpless for a moment. "I'm telling you this, because . . . I'm starting to feel something again. With you. I never thought I'd get close to that again, and right now, just holding your hand . . ." He was at a loss to describe what she brought to life inside of him. Something that for so long, he'd thought as dead as...

She took a shuddering breath as her eyes brimmed over. "I lied before," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

Puzzled, he asked, "When?"

"When I said... I couldn't remember the last time I was happy?" The flood of emotion spilled down her cheek to splash on the soft comforter -- was that his? -- between them. "I do remember. It was... right before my 17th birthday. Before we..." she sniffled softly, and looked away. "We'd been patrolling, and... we sat against that mausoleum in Sunny Rest -- remember? The one with the really ugly angel-gargoyle things? And we were looking up at the stars, and you were telling me about Cassiopeia. I felt... like the whole world was in front of us, just waiting for us to take it. Like... everything was perfect, and anything was possible." Her voice broke. "I haven't felt that way since."

His heart shattered, right there, in his chest. "Buffy . . ." He couldn't stop himself. His hand trailed up her arm, to her face, the tips of his fingers gently caressing her cheek. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he wished he hadn't left her, but . . . how could he, when he knew, *knew* that if he'd stayed all those years ago, something much worse would have befallen them? It had been for her, why he'd left, for her life, her chance at . . . and look what it had gotten her. Nothing but pain. He'd thought she'd found her longed-for normalcy, for a time. As much as he'd disliked Riley -- based, he admitted now, solely on the fact that the boy was *touching* his *mate* -- he'd at least thought the commando made Buffy happy. To learn now that she'd never . . .and what came after, with Spike . . .

"No." She stopped his self-flagellation with a gentle fingertip to his lips. "I didn't tell you that to make you feel bad, Angel. Because... right now... as messed up as we both are? It's still better than all the time when you weren't in my life. I missed you... I missed the way I felt when I was with you. And I started to realize... on the ride over here? Since we've been... doing whatever we're doing... it's like... I know it sounds stupid, but...I can almost see the stars again."

Angel retook possession of her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, her wrist, then brought it to rest at last over his still heart, holding it there. "Sometimes I would look at Connor . . . and I would wonder what he would look like if he were ours. If he'd still have my eyes if your gene pool had been present to put up a fight." He smiled a little bit. "The only pain I've ever felt that comes close to losing him was realizing that I would have to leave you." His hand clenched over hers for a moment. "I've had enough pain in my life, Buffy. I think we both have. I know it's irrational to believe we've seen the end of it, forever, but . . . I'd like to make a promise to you, right now. Do you think your mental state can handle a declaration?"

A little smile forced its way through her tears. "As long as you're not going to declare you've decided to shave your head and become a Hare Krishna or something."

"Well, not now that you've *guessed*," he said, feigning disappointment. Then he sobered, became almost solemn. "I'm never going to leave you again. Not unless you want me to. Maybe not even then. I'm becoming downright selfish in my old age, Buffy, and . . . I want us both to be as happy as we can be, for as long as we can be. Is that all right with you?"

She shrugged, but her smile grew. She could feel it, blooming like the first flower of spring from deep beneath the snow that had long frozen her soul. "I guess. I mean... I don't have anything else pressing planned." The levity of the moment passed, and she sobered once more. "It's more than all right. It's what I've waited for since the day we met."

He stared at her for a moment, lost in her, and whispered, almost without conscious thought, "Can I please kiss you?"

She blinked rapidly, blushing like some virgin schoolgirl. But she was shyer now than she ever had been before the first time they'd made love. So much stood between them... years of history, of love and loss, pain... and longing. "Yes, please."

Slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, her temples, her closed eyelids, the tip of her nose, her chin, leaving no inch of her features untouched, until, finally, he reached her mouth. "Okay?" he whispered, causing their lips to inadvertently brush, he was so close to her.

She sucked in a little breath at the touch of his mouth. But it was a good gasp... a tiny spark that began the first thaw of some of the cold places inside her. "Yes."

He kissed her again, soft, fleeting little pecks against her mouth. One hand remained, propping his head up, the other, he brought to her hip and just . . .let it rest there. A good inch still separated their bodies, and he pressed a kiss to her trembling lips, the corner of her delectable mouth, always soft, always gentle. "Still okay?"

Her eyes closed of their own accord, her heart setting a new, skittering beat that had little to do with fear. This time, she could only nod in response.

He moved a little closer to her, their bodies still not quite in contact. Slowly, he began to trace the tips of his fingers against her hip, not delving anywhere too intimate yet. The thin material of her "dress" left little to the imagination, and it was almost ((but not quite, nowhere near)) like touching her bare skin. He very, very lightly let the tip of his tongue brush against her lower lip.

She sighed at the contact and melted into the kiss, leaning closer, closing that last inch separating them... this time, with only the barest twinge. She slipped her hand up the soft cotton covering his arm, traveled slowly, reverently over his shoulder and neck, and finally, buried her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as she let her lips fall slack to invite him in.

An involuntary moan left his mouth as he felt her open to him, felt the full length of her body pressed so perfectly to his. He swept his tongue inside her mouth, tasting her the way he'd been starving to for so long, gently letting their tongues play together. The hand on her hip slid around to her lower back, pulling her that little bit tighter against him.

She gave a little moan from deep in her chest. The spark that had been tickling in her belly slowly caught, spread... some small part of her mind waiting for the panic and fear that hovered just at the edges of her mind to charge forward and steal this from them, the way it always had before. For her body to rebel against closeness, against intimacy that would make her weak and vulnerable once more. She concentrated on his cool lips... the gentle stroke of his tongue against hers... the purely wonderful sensation of his hand on her back, like an anchor.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad just kissing all night like this...

Yes, he could kiss her forever, he decided as he felt her tiny hands reach out to touch him in return. He let his head rest upon the pillow so his other hand was free and he brought it around her back, to her head, cradling her securely as he let the other slowly trace a line up and down her spine.

His caress brought a groan of pleasure she hadn't heard herself make in... as long as she could remember. And hearing that small sound gave her more hope; let her add just that tiniest bit of fuel to the fire. She let her lips savor the proud lines of his jaw... the cords of his neck, and back again to his mouth. Nice. More than nice. Fantastic. And she was certain, somewhere deep inside of her, that her adjectives could only continue to improve from here on out.

The kissing was going so well, and she was focused so completely on just *how* well, she didn't notice her foot hook around his calf, caressing slowly up and down his leg as she pressed her body closer still.

Angel's hand slid over her hip and down her thigh to pull her a little closer, pressing his hardening-further-by-the-second crotch against hers; he froze for a moment. The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel pressured into anything. It was just so natural to move against her, to draw her closer, to try to take her so far into his being that she could never be harmed again . . .His mouth found her ear and he pressed a soothing kiss to the shell.

"Angel..." she gasped.

"Good?" he muttered into her ear, moving his mouth down for a taste of the underside of her jaw, the hand holding her head urging it back so that he could re-familiarize himself with her throat.

She pulled away to look into his eyes, speaking gently. "How about this... I'll tell you when it's not good. Okay?"

An endless moment passed between them as he stared into her eyes. Then, he bent his head and lost himself in the kind of kiss he hadn't indulged in for years; not since the last time he'd held her without fear of terrible, unknown consequences. His hand trailed down the curve of her rear and he pulled her to him further, situating her that tiny bit more firmly against him. The very tips of his fingers found the low-cut line at the back of her dress and he began stroking her skin there.

Buffy could feel him, hard and ready, pressed against her own aching flesh. Could feel the hot, wet throb of pleasure between her thighs, as though his hands had loosed some long-dammed river inside of her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and suddenly -- she just couldn't get close enough. It had to be now. Right now, before the bloody little blue-eyed monster in her brain started talking again. "Yes... Angel, yes," she whispered into his lips.

His mouth moved down to her throat again, her clavicle, and as he licked and sucked at her skin, his hand drifted up to the tie on the back of her dress. He hesitated for a moment, then did something he should have done a long time ago -- he trusted her to know her own limitations and to tell him if they'd gone too far. His fingers deftly untied the already unstable fastening. He made no move to uncover her breasts (though oh, how he was tempted), instead choosing to trace the line of her naked spine, from the bottom of her scalp, to the waist of her dress.

To her own surprise, when the straps of her halter-top fell away, her only response... her only *thought* of a response, was to reach for the buttons on his shirt. She was almost tempted to just rip the damn thing off -- God, had she ever wanted anyone so much in her life? -- but chose to go for the civilized method of undressing him instead. Her mouth quickly lent itself to blanketing each bit of cool, soft flesh she encountered, while her hands continued down until all the buttons were taken care of. Then she slipped her hands inside to feel the smooth, flat muscles of his belly.

Moaning with the feel of her hot little hands against his bare flesh, Angel took her enthusiasm as a good sign and permitted his hands to have their way. With barely a brush of his fingers, the material of her halter-top slipped to reveal her topless form to his hungry gaze. His mouth actually began to water a little. "God, Buffy . . ." Such ((beautiful)) perfection . . . "I'd almost forgotten how . . ." But there were no words to express to her how profound a moment it was for him, being allowed the honor of lying with her, so instead of expressing himself poorly verbally, he lowered his head to worship the valley between her breasts.

She gasped softly, arching away from him to give him better access to her chest. She petted and combed her fingers through his hair, panting, clutching his legs harder with her own, letting the friction finally build down deep, the fire growing, blazing... and the want, oh, God, how she'd missed the want, sparking to exquisite life. "Angel . . . I love you so much . . . " she breathed, "Please, make love to me. Please."

"Gladly," he mumbled in a kind of dazed relief. In all honesty, he hadn't expected things to progress this far. He would have been fine with it, too. He would be fine with anything that set her at ease. His groin, however, was incredibly relieved that there wouldn't be a ((another)) cold shower in his not-too-distant future. His hands ran up her ribcage until they reached the full mounds of her breasts. Gently, he cupped them, letting her nipples slip between his fingers, never quite giving them the attention they were begging for. His mouth bent to her chest, his tongue tasting perspiration beneath her left breast, while one of his hands regretfully abandoned its prize to trail down her back, in search of other treasures.

Buffy sighed, melting under his gentle attentions. This was desire. True desire. She remembered it, vaguely... but only with him. Suddenly the years she'd wasted in Riley's, and then Spike's, beds, seemed a faraway, unpleasant dream she had once after eating a big Mexican dinner. The beast stalking her mind stepped away so she could no longer see or feel it so intensely. Her hands roved where they would over Angel's delicious, perfect body, and she drank in his details with a relish she didn't think she had left inside of her... his broad, carved back, the hard curve of his rear, the slope of his muscular thighs....

And then, there was what he was doing with his mouth... the slow, languid lapping of his tongue around the turn of her breast... the gentle teasing around the nipple, a denial that was less pain, and finally – finally! -- more pleasure. "God... you feel so good..." She tangled her fingers in his hair, urging him closer, thrusting her aching nipple toward his mouth. "I forgot..." she chanted breathlessly. "I forgot it could be like this. Please..." ((Make me remember everything.))

He took pity on her and laved her nipple with his tongue. Then, because he was definitely growing selfish in his old age, and he wanted to swallow her whole, he pulled it between his lips and suckled, circling with his tongue the entire time. His hand began to slowly inch the material of her dress down past her hips. "I want to remind you," he rasped against her breast, splitting his attention in half to serve her neglected nipple. "I want to touch you everywhere, make you feel everything I've always wanted for you. I want it to be so good for you that you never forget again." That said, he took her other nipple in his mouth and oh-so-gently scraped his blunt teeth over the tip.

She cried out, clutching his head to her breast, as the fire became an inferno consuming everything but those places where her flesh made contact with his. "Yessss... touch me... Angel..."

Rolling her onto her back, he lifted her hips and rid her entirely of the gauzy dress. Noting her lingerie, he grinned down at her. "Black silk. My favorite." His upper body hovered over hers, and he supported his weight on one hand, allowing the other free passage over her skin. His mouth returned to her breasts, suckling, licking, nipping when the occasion called for it, while his hand trailed down her stomach, stopping to rub gentle circles over her lower abdomen; his thumb teasing, sliding under the band of her panties, then retreating again.

She thrust her hips at him languidly, wanting more, faster, now... and yet never wanting it to end. Wanting this tender remembrance of the joys of the flesh to continue forever. She slid her hands inside his shirt once more, gently tugging at it as a signal that she wanted it GONE.

Angel would never be accused of being slow on the uptake in these delicate situations. His shirt vanished with superhuman speed. His hand slipped lower, four fingers now teasing at the band of her underwear, dipping inside just far enough to tease the very top of her curls. His mouth reluctantly abandoned her breasts to move back up to her neck, licking and sucking at her throat, the pulse that was pounding, calling to him -- a siren song he resisted easily when it compared to her feeling at ease with what they were doing.

Her hands roamed over his newly exposed skin, following all the hills and valleys of muscles revealed to her hungry explorations. There was never anything in the world that felt like this... his body... his touch... she needed it like a drug.

((Yeah, that's right, Slayer. You need it. You're nothing without it. You'll take whatever I give you, and you'll love it, because that's all you have. You’re still dead without this.))

The moment it happened, he felt the cold go through her, her muscles growing tight, not with wanting, but with some ugly recollection. The hand over her belly moved away from her underwear, concentrating, instead, on tracing soothing circles over her abdomen. His mouth found her ear.

"I love you," he whispered hoarsely, using his other hand to brush the hair back from her face. "But I won't stop until you tell me to."

However, he did slow, smoothing his hand over her ribcage, to her belly, and back again, taking in as much of her flesh as possible with every pass.

"No," she insisted softly, mentally staking the little DevilSpike in her memory for the hundredth time – the way she should have staked RealSpike when she'd had the chance -- and with him, the monster she had been in his demonic embrace. "I don't want you to stop. I just . . . for a second . . . I forgot."

"What?" he asked gently.

"I forgot it was okay to need you," she confessed wonderingly.

"Let me remind you," he murmured, moving his hand back down to her waistband. He lifted her hips and rid her of the offending garment. His head dipped down to her stomach of its own volition and he made love to her belly button for an obscene amount of time, his mind and heart churning together, desperate to give voice to the thoughts swirling inside of him. Thoughts he was almost positive she needed to hear.

"I need you so much sometimes that it scares me," he murmured against the sacred flesh of her belly. "Or at least . . . it used to. After that -- rough patch -- I went through, where I didn't need anything -- I barely needed *blood* -- I started wanting things again. Silly things, vital things . . . suddenly, I wanted to see movies and listen to pop songs and spend time with my friends. I didn't want to be alone anymore. Needing all those things in life . . . I know it's what kept me going after . . ." He didn't say his son's name aloud, fearful of what might happen to the meticulous control he'd held over his grief if he did. Every emotion he possessed was too raw, too wide open to her…

"Needing is part of living, Buffy," he said quietly, worshipping her abdomen further. He knew she already understood all this; wasn't it she who'd taught him, so long ago? But he also knew, from his own experience, that sometimes it was nice to have permission: to feel, to live, even to need. For someone else to tell you, when you couldn't tell yourself.

"I know," she murmured, nodding her head, watching him adore her skin . . . "I know needing is okay. It's just -- God, don't stop doing that . . ." And her train of thought was *gone*. Her pounding heart kept time as she tried to remember what she'd been about to say. Of course *this* need was good . . .it was pure, it was right, and it was natural, like the need to breathe. Needing wasn't always the same as addiction, or desperation, or the frantic compulsion to find something -- anything -- to make her feel.

And in the end... wasn't this what she had always been searching for anyway? Wasn't the basic need for him the one hole in her life that she had almost killed herself trying to fill?

Lifting one of her legs off the bed, he brought it over his shoulder, opening her to his gaze, his touch. He pressed his mouth to her inner thigh, darting his tongue out for a taste, then sliding, sliding, sliding up until his nose was brushing the damp, fragrant curls he'd been dreaming of for months, and the thought came to him again ((how could I have forgotten this?)) and he had to vocalize it, "I just realized that I've never . . ." And it was true, he never had. Their first time had been so intense and they'd just *needed* without much in the way of finesse. There was the day that had never been, but it didn't count, not really, not when it seemed so much like a dream to him now. Besides, he had been human then and what would she taste like filtered through predator's senses . . .

"No!" she gasped.

Every part of his body seized up in utter denial of what he'd just heard. He forced himself to believe it, though. For her sake. "It's okay," he murmured, though his throbbing erection, his mouth, so close to tasting heaven, lodged firm protests that it was most certainly NOT okay. "It's too fast . . ."

She laughed -- laughed?! -- and wound her fingers into his hair. "No . . . I was saying 'no, you haven't' . . . done . . . *that*.’ I'm sorry." She sounded dazed, happy . . . and she was urging him downward once more. "Please, don't let me interrupt you." Her expression softened. "I'm not scared at all."

It wasn't the whole truth, Buffy reflected . . . but it was enough, for now.

Angel seemed more frightened than she did. "You don't want me to stop?"

((You don't want all that hearts and flowers crap, Buffy. You never really did, no matter how bloody much you tried to convince yourself. You don't want a soul... you don't want a man... you want an animal. You want me.))

"No, I..."

Lightning didn't strike as quickly as he did. His head was back where it belonged, his tongue flattened to take a long, slow, sinful lick of her sex. A scream caught in her throat, and he set it free by stiffening his tongue, the very tip tracing little patterns around her clit.

"Oh, GOD!" she cried out, thrusting up against his face. "Oh! Angel! Yes!" Her leg wound around his neck, her fingertips gouging his skull. "Slow . . . please, slow . . ." Her little fear spoke aloud, needing the difference to be clear . . . needing to know that she *did* want this, the warm caress of his hands, his lips . . . the sensation of his beautiful soul enveloping her. The wounded little keeper of time in her heart agreed -- she wanted this bliss to go on until she forgot what pain and fear even felt like anymore.

Slow. He could do slow. He could stay down here forever. He didn't even need to breathe.

His hands slid beneath her rear to lift her hips toward his mouth, bringing ambrosia that much closer. Regretfully abandoning her clit (for the moment), he worked his way lower, sweeping around the tense bunch of muscle that made his cock twitch with longing. He stabbed his tongue inside of her once, briefly, before returning to her clit to brush teasing, butterfly-wing flicks against it.

This was toomuchnotenougheverything. The world was nothing but his face between her legs, his thick hair between her fingers . . . his tongue making love to her was washing her away until there was nothing, nothing but him, until there had never been anything but him. And the moaning, squirming, flying part of her wondered, so much as it could focus on thought -- had there ever been?

As he felt her thrusting restlessly against his face, he decided to abandon the butterfly-wing technique he'd been perfecting on her. It was just . . . she was absolutely liquid with want and it was just a *shame* to let it all go to waste . . . He was lapping at her in an instant, gorging himself on her, really, then sliding his tongue oh-so-slowly inside her tighthotwetness, in, out, lap, in, out, lap, inoutlap . . .

A shudder took her body and she moaned aloud . . . a deep, long, keening sound from deep inside. They both felt the reverberations, he against his mouth, she from beneath her very skin as she howled his name.

Her moans spurred him on. His mouth reacquainted itself with her clit, and his hands, itching to touch her, finally got their way. Two fingers slid inside her body and began to stroke in time with the maddeningly gentle flicks of his tongue over her clit.

It was the first time she'd had anything inside of her since . . . but the thought never fully materialized, because the expert, shattering pleasure of his attentions set her off in less than a heartbeat. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut, her head thrashed helplessly back and forth on the pillow, her lips pressed together to stifle the ear shattering cries she could feel building in her belly. But finally, blessedly, she couldn't control the passion exploding inside her anymore. She came with a cry of half-shock, half-ecstasy, her entire body clenching, arching them off the bed, and she let out an ear splitting howl that was equal parts prayer and his beautiful, oh so apt, name.

Gently, he removed his fingers from her channel, and then proceeded to lick them clean. He then bent his head back to her body, gently lapping, bringing her down slowly. His pants felt like ace bandages wrapped around his aching cock, but he was loath to vacate his current position. He'd just succeeded in bringing her to bliss, something he'd begun to doubt would happen tonight. He would gladly lay there until dawn, a willing supplicant to her gratification.

Buffy lay still, panting, staring up at the ceiling with a catatonia born from mind-bending ecstasy. She tried to speak, to tell him... to alleviate any lingering fears he might have, but... all she could manage was, "Uh...uh... huh...uh...huh."

As she lay there, breathless, he decided he was craving a little bit more of her pleasure . . . and he set about building her arousal all over again. Her-no-doubt very sensitive clit called to him and he pressed his mouth over it firmly, holding it between his lips as his tongue slowly, gently, began to massage it.

She made a noise . . . a decidedly inhuman noise that reverberated off the walls. And then, she began to whimper a little. "Angel! Oh, God . . .I can't . . . can't do it . . . again . . please . . .uhhhmmmmm . . . yes. . . yesssss . . ."  
There was a whisper in her mind, just behind the drone of pleasure in her blood. ((Your mouth always says no, but your body screams yes...)) She kicked its source viciously in the face, even as her physical legs cradled her true lover like a cherished child.  
He kept at his tongue massage for a few minutes, then slowly, gently, began to suckle at her, increasing pace and pressure every few seconds. His thumb moved over that sensitive patch of skin centimeters below her clit and he began to stroke it.

"Angel... please..." She wasn't sure what she wanted more... more of this, or more of what he just finished doing, or... him inside of her. "Angel. Stop. Look at me."

Reluctantly, he lifted his head, bringing his hand to rest upon her thigh. He licked his lips, covered in her juices, in an unconsciously erotic display. "Buffy?"

For a moment, she forgot what she was going to say, as lost as she was in watching that simple motion of his tongue. "What?" she whispered absently.

He was almost amused. If he weren't a little bit worried about her, he would be. "You said stop. I stopped. Why did I stop?"

"Oh!" She exclaimed, then blushed nearly from head to foot. "Wow. What I was going to say sort of loses some of its dramatic value now."

"We're not characters in a movie, Buffy," he chided without rancor. "I don't care about dramatic value; I just care about giving you everything you want."

She relaxed... he was right...this wasn't a performance. This night was about nothing, and no one, but the two of them. "I want you inside me. I want you to be part of me again."

He shed his pants in seconds flat, glad to finally be out of them. He climbed up her body, pulled her onto her side, facing him, and urged her to throw one of her legs over his hip. The full lengths of their naked bodies were pressed together for the first time in years and he couldn't quite believe it was happening; couldn't quite believe it was real. "I am a part of you," he whispered quietly. "This," he indicated their bodies, "doesn't change that." He smirked. "However . . ." Angling her hips just so, he slipped the very tip of his cock inside her.

She shivered, and thrust slightly against him, trying to urge him all the way in. "Please don't wait," she entreated, "Please." She pulled away to look in his eyes, smoothing her hands down his cheeks. "I need you. All of you. Now and forever."

"Your wish . . ." With a sigh, he eased the rest of the way inside her, and the journey was easier than he expected. They fit together, perfectly, like they were made for each other . . . "God," he groaned, pressing his forehead to hers. "I must have made myself forget how good you feel, how right . . . there's no way I could have survived without you . . ."

She let out a long, slow gasp, and wrapped her arms around him. "Oh, Angel... I know. I'm so glad you came to me... god... when you did. I was so empty... so empty when you were gone."

He loved how she felt, how perfect, how right . . . the temptation to thrust, to pound into her, was ever present, but he held back, wanting to savor this contact, wanting to make sure she was right there, in the moment with him. He gazed into her eyes, wondering if he was imagining the slight apprehension there. His hand glided up to her forehead and he touched the worried lines there. "You're furrowing," he noted softly.

"No I'm not," she denied automatically, not regretting the lie at all. He felt so good inside of her, and she didn't ever, EVER want him to go away again. But somewhere in the back of her mind, that same demonic voice was nagging. Not a rational voice, not even a little bit sane voice. But she could hear it anyway, telling her, 'He isn't different. He's just the same. A beast. A monster, just like you. You want the pain, and he wants to give it to you. You know it. I know it. So you might as well just growl and snarl and claw and pretend that's all you need. "It's... it's nothing. It's good. I promise."

((No. Don't close your eyes, Slayer. Look at me. Look at *me*. Yeah, that's right. See me. Watch me take you.))

"Don't lie to me," he almost begged. "Not now. Not here." ((Not while I'm *inside* you.))

She forced herself to look into his eyes. "I don't... I don't know how to explain it. It's... it's so stupid, but... " She took a deep breath and forced it out. "I can't... look at you. And... do this." At his wounded look, she hurriedly interjected, "No! I don't mean..." she reached up to caress his face. "I love to look at you. You're beautiful, and..." Her lower lip wobbled as tears once again filled her eyes. "But he... Angel, please... you have to . . . I can't tell you like this."

Exercising every ounce of Super Human Strength and Control he had, Angel withdrew from her body and rolled to his back, his eyes shut, his jaw clenched as he reined in the desperate desire he felt for her. After a moment, he looked at her again. "Tell me," he softly implored.

She *couldn’t* look at him and tell him this, either. She'd never shared any of the details of what happened with Spike... all the humiliation. The psych games he used to play while they were fucking -- because that's what it was, and maybe not even that. He loved to hurt her. Loved to make her cry and beg and whimper. And she loved to do it right back.

"He... used to make me keep my..." she took a deep, shuddering breath. "Keep my eyes open while he... did things to me. He said he wanted to make sure I knew. What I was. What I was doing. Who I was doing it with. He never wanted me to be able to pretend, or fantasize, or lie to myself. He made me look at him... and he would talk... just... run his *fucking* *mouth* about how I asked for it. I wanted it. I liked it. I can't... have you inside me and... watch you without hearing all of it all over again. It’s not right. I don’t want him here with us. I just can’t..."

"So don't." His answer was simple and understanding. He reached out a hand to her and cupped her jaw firmly until she was forced to look at him. "Close your eyes, Buffy, and let me try my damnedest to make it better."

"Did you just tell me to close my eyes?" she whispered, almost smiling. "That's an ironic role reversal, isn't it?" But the smile wasn’t real, and the beautiful moment was gone, and right then, she was sure that he could staple her eyes shut, and she would still see Spike -- still smell that old cigarette, liquor, leather and blood stink all over her. "Look, Angel, I just don't think this is going to work. You can't make this better... you just... can't." Her voice broke at the end, and she turned over, her bare back to him. Were they just making sweet, gentle love a moment ago? Now she could think of nothing but getting away. From herself as well as him.

At that moment, had the opportunity presented itself, he would have cheerfully cut Spike's head off. With a butter knife. Instead, he fixated on Buffy. He slid across the bed toward her until his chest was pressed to her back. His arms wrapped around her securely ((naturally)) and his mouth kissed her ear. "We could stop now," he allowed softly. "But if we do, I don't think we'll ever start again." The thought of that pained him more than he could bear, and he let his hand rest on her belly again, soothingly rubbing, something he was *sure* Spike had never done for her.

"I know," she whispered, nuzzling into him instinctively even as her soul cringed away. "I'm afraid."

"You don't have to be afraid of me," he whispered into her ear, his heart breaking. One of his greatest fears, that she would fear him, coming true, not because of some hideous sin in his past, but because of the sins of another . . .

"No," she sighed. "Not you. Me. I can't stand for you to see the monster that's inside of me! You always thought of me as this paragon of light and goodness or whatever. I can't lose that -- " It took all of her will, but she turned her head to look at him, and tenderly caressed his face. "That's the only mirror I can stand to look into anymore."

He stared down at her beautiful face for a moment, debating . . . and then finally made a decision. "I want you to try something. Can you do that for me? The second you want us to stop, we'll stop.

Still crying, unable to conceive that he would still want to keep trying, when all she did was fight him, she nodded. "Okay. I'll... try."

He dropped a kiss onto the corner of her eye. "Turn around," he whispered.

She stared at him for a moment, then slowly turned over once more, trying not to let him see her trepidation... the way she wanted to start shaking all over again. She did the breathing exercises, instead, and tried to relax.

He held her securely against him, gently brushing the tears on her cheeks away with the pads of his thumbs. "Do you trust me?" he murmured quietly.

The question shot a lightning bolt of terror through her, for a moment...

And then she remembered that the answer was utterly different, here, with him. Her body melted into his embrace as if it had been meaning to do that all along.

"Always," she whispered.

"Good." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Close your eyes for me."

Without another moment's hesitation, she did. If he took the opportunity to run her through with a sword and send her to Hell, she would go just as willingly as she had gone to Heaven. And like it had been at that leaving, his eyes, his smile, the touch of his hands, the sweet velvet caress of his voice, the memory of all he had given her, would be the last thoughts of her mortal existence.

He kissed her closed lids with reverence, his hands running slow, soothing strokes up and down her back. "You're beautiful," he whispered, moving one of his hands to her hip, extending his touch outward, fluidly, stroking more of her bare skin with every pass. "Do you know why you're so unimaginably beautiful?"

Trembling a little under his touch, she shook her head.

"It's your heart," he confided gently, his caress unobtrusive, natural, so that she barely noticed it -- she could only feel the sensations that it brought. His hand pressed over her heart, taking in the rapid-fire beats. "Your pure, hero's heart. The first time I saw you, I wanted to keep it safe. Do you remember me telling you that?" His hand moved up to her left breast, softly caressing, "Now... it's been battered and torn and broken so many times now that you can't feel it anymore. You've forgotten how powerful it is, how exquisite . . ."

She swallowed her denial quickly. Like so many beautiful things he'd said to her... so many divine, poetic lies, she wanted it to be true. Even if just for this moment. And the way he touched her...

She couldn't see anything but the darkness behind her eyelids, but all her senses focused sharply in her skin, and his touch proved to her things that his words never could. He loved her. He might not know her shadows... her inner ugliness... but he knew his own. And hadn't she loved him in spite of it? Maybe, even a little bit because of it? Because then, even though she didn't know... she knew. She and Angel were the same, inside.

Couldn't she let him try to give that back to her?

She gave a choked little sigh and gave herself up to his gift.

"There's darkness inside of you," he continued, cupping her breast fully in his palm, then . . .he just held it; cradled it; felt her heartbeat double -- treble -- beneath her flesh. "But it's not evil or wrong. It's just a part of you. It's a part of everyone. And do you know why?" He bent his head and pressed his lips over her heart. "Because of this. There is so much beauty inside of you, so much love . . . it balances it, Buffy. The darkness and the light that live inside of you makes you *great*. There's only one thing 'wrong' about you, love, and that's that someone ever made you feel ashamed for everything that you are." His mouth moved lower, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over her chest.

A sound came from her throat that she hadn't meant to make -- part sigh, part sob -- and she wept as much as reveled in his touch. She said nothing. There were no words for what was slowly beginning to move through her... through the soothing darkness he had given her. Her body sang to his fingertips, her heart thundered, and the warm waves she'd ridden earlier began to lap once more at the edges of her consciousness.

"You're fierce," he murmured over her flesh, pausing to briefly suckle at her nipple. His hands were sweeping up and down her back, over her rear, as far down on her thighs as they could reach, her belly -- he was everywhere at once, consuming her flesh in tactile wonder. "Gentle," he continued, briefly paying attention to her other breast, then moving up to adore her neck. "A compassionate warrior with so many layers it would take eternity to uncover them all." He took one of her hands in his while the other continued worshipping her body, bringing her fingers to his mouth. "Delicate, tender, deadly fingers," he murmured, taking each one into his mouth in turn, sucking gently, nibbling at the tips, before moving on to drop open mouthed kisses to her palm, the backs of her knuckles, her wrist. "And there's your heart again," he mumbled against her thundering pulse, "screaming out that you're alive, that you're . . . *here*."

Alive. Was she alive, really? She asked herself that a lot, sometimes, when the memories of ... Heaven... snuck under her careful guard, and she compared it to what she saw before her -- all the ugliness in the world. The stains inside herself. Alive? What did that mean? She didn't think she had really been alive since long before she'd died... since the day she heard some weird guy say, "Are you Buffy Summers?"

(If only he had just been the crazed rapist with a twisted penchant for teenaged girls she had initially assumed he was...)

But that wasn't true either. No matter how often she got lost... no matter how far she strayed from hope... all it took was one whisper... one touch of Angel’s hand, and she always remembered. If she had never been the Slayer, she would never have known him. Never been the recipient of all his beautiful gifts. He was always the one who made her remember what it meant to be alive.

She remembered now. Willow had resurrected her, but he was the one bringing her back to the living. Finally, slowly, she slipped her arm up over his shoulder, and sifted her fingers through his hair.

More, she told him with her touch, her breath. Make me live again. Show me more.

Angel began to move down her arms, pressing his lips to every inch of skin. Over her ribcage, her belly, along her hips, down one leg, paying special attention to her tiny feet, then back up the other. He licked, kissed, nibbled and suckled, and the entire time, he interspersed his gentle affections with soft exhalations against her skin, breaths of "Beautiful" and "Precious" and "Exquisite" and "Sweetheart."

"Angel..." It was the first thing she'd said aloud since this new healing began, and she said it over and over, wrapping herself around him, determined to reach all the skin stretched over the frame of the one creature in all the dimensions she did know she could trust. The one who would never hurt her on purpose... not without good, real reasons. She let herself fall a little more, let go another inch of control as his lips and tongue, his words and hands, swept all the filth away. She reached around him to caress the length and breadth of his back, over his delectable rear, then beneath to tenderly stroke the part of him that couldn't in any way be called soft. "You feel so good. Thank you. Oh, God... thank you..."

And still she cried.

He moaned against her throat when she grasped him with her strong, tiny hand, then brought his mouth to hers to stop her flow of words. He did not crave her gratitude; he craved her pleasure. After a long, slow, lingering kiss, he moved his mouth to her cheeks, kissing and lapping her tears away as she wept. His hands found purchase on her hips and he tilted her towards him. "Buffy," he whispered "I love you," and he slipped slowly, easily inside of her body.

She cried out, then... but not for fear, or pain, or memory of violation, but for the sheer, pure, beautiful white light pleasure of it. The perfection of wholeness she'd thought lost to her forever. She arched her neck against the pillows, met his gentle thrust, and the tears... the pain that had been with her for so many years, was forgotten. This time, as he surged into her, filling her with his soul as much as his flesh, she knew it wouldn't come again.

Or at least... not for now. Not for this flawless moment. Not for this night. And that was enough. "I do need you," she gasped. "I do. I always have. God..."

Still, he pressed gentle, fleeting kisses to her face, ghostly kisses, almost, as he oh-so-slowly began to thrust. The rhythm was almost nonexistent; he barely moved within her as he let his touch, the worship to be found there, speak for him.

Her pathetic forays into "normal", and later, "perverted", had given her a much broader vision of sex than she’d had the last time they were together. She had fucked, she had rutted, she had even made something with a passing resemblance to love, but she had never, even with him, that first night, been so overwhelmed with sensation. Every inch of him touching every inch of her, their bodies and spirits connected, their pain and their pleasure truly one. She returned his reverent, soothing caresses, winding her arms around him, brushing his lips, his brow, his throat with her mouth, her hands wandering lower to grip him, to take the control that he offered... that he had been offering all along, but she had been too afraid to try to rein, and urge him deeper. She spread her legs wider to promise him, at last, it was all right to come in, and slowly, lazily, thrust her hips upward, clutching him with her inner muscles as she did.

A deep groan that was pulled from his very soul left Angel's mouth, and some part of him rejoiced at feeling her full participation. The rest of him was nearly ready to lose himself inside of her, but he wouldn't allow that. What he would allow, however, was a deep, smooth thrust inside her tightwetheat, countering the lazy rhythm she set for them. He wanted this to last forever. "You feel . . ." His mouth pressed to her cheek. "I can't describe it . . "

She knew exactly how to describe it. The word wouldn't form in her mind, but she knew it was there. And she knew, from experience, how close it was to the truth. A sensation -- another one -- that she never thought she would have again. Her eyes flooded with the surety of it. She continued flowing up and around him as he gently, deeply washed into her. "You don't have to. I know." She turned her head and met his lips, slipping her tongue inside, plunging her fingers into his hair to take the kiss deeper, too. It lasted forever... every second its own eternity, its own brand new reality, and every undulating ripple that coursed through her was like another... better... rebirth. "I know," she sighed.

The ebb and flow continued between them and he decided that he really could stay like this for eternity. He kept kissing her, because he was starving for her and he wanted to drink her down until he forgot what it was like to miss her as he had these past years. His hand slowly trailed down her body and he let his thumb slip inside her moist curls, resting it above her clit, allowing the rhythm of their bodies to stimulate movement.

"Ahhhh... Angelllll..." she trilled, and the ripples were suddenly tiny waves... but the waves weren't enough. Benediction or no, pure soul love or no, there was still animal in it. Not the Stygian black that she so feared, that she fought so hard against, but want... the drive to be one with the man she loved more than anything in the universe. She thrust faster against his hand, harder onto his cock, and dug her fingertips into the giving flesh of his back. "Please... Please never stop."

"Never," he murmured into her mouth. He sped up the pace of his thrusts, put more power behind them. He felt how close she was, how close he was, and knew, as much as he wished it didn’t, it would have to come to an end. He lifted her leg up toward her shoulders, deepening his penetration. "Just let it go, sweetheart." He felt near tears himself, his forehead pressed tightly to hers, locked inside an embrace he would gladly perish in. "Let it go and I swear to God I'll catch you."

She had meant to answer. Meant to say that she believed him, but the sincerity of his vow, the blend of tender and fierce in his body’s quest to be one with hers, the single tear that dripped, cool and angelsweet on her lips stole any words. Instead, she gave him the only things she had left to give -- her eyes, wide open and focused on his as she surrendered to the sweet, glorious pleasure. She dissolved with a low, shuddering moan that burst into a cry from deep in her wounded soul. His name, torn out of her in a rage of sensory overload.

Her eyes -- open wide, fearless, and burning with passion -- sent a sharp, piercing reaction through his heart to his groin. The intense contractions of her inner muscles pushed him physically past the edge of self-restraint, and he pounded into her, whispering her name like a prayer as he spilled inside her body.

She became boneless beneath him, desperately trying to catch her breath. The urges inside her -- to laugh hysterically, to burst into tears, and to just generally break down into her fundamental stuff all battled for domination of her response. So she lay there, panting and grinning, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him... though her strength was currently leaving something to be desired. "Oh. My. God."

He nuzzled his face against the side of her neck trying to recover any sense of self. "That about sums it up for me."

Buffy closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of him against her, and despite the extreme difficulty his full weight caused in her already labored breathing, she cradled him there, gently stroking his hair. Tightening her grip on his shoulders, she burst into tears.

Immediately raising his head, Angel brought a hand to her cheek, concerned. "Buffy? What's wrong?"

Shuddering uncontrollably with her sobbing, she gazed up at him. "I'm... I'm so... h-h-HAAAAPYYYYY," she wailed, and dissolved once more.

Breathing a literal sigh of relief, Angel pulled her to him and rolled onto his back until she was laid out against his full length. "Me too," he whispered into her hair, stroking her back with the intent of lulling her to her sorely needed rest.

She eased her weary spirit, her sated body, her healing heart against him, and cried herself to sleep, wrapped tightly in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

"I can’t stand to fly...  
I’m not that naïve.  
Men weren’t meant to ride  
With clouds between their knees.  
I’m only a man in a silly red sheet  
Digging for Kryptonite on this one-way street.  
I’m only a man in a funny red sheet  
Looking for special things inside of me.  
Inside of me..."

* * *

I am not Superman.

The bright Los Angeles night called to him from the bed and who was he to refuse a good brood? Several stories up, there was no one to complain about the naked man with his morose thoughts, standing in front of an over-priced window, staring out into the city.

I am not Superman.

It was the only thought in his head for a moment. He was supposed to be this great Champion, defending the world from the forces of evil and yet he had been unable to perform the most basic duty of every parent -- defend the life of his only son.

Connor hadn't even lived a single year. Angel had lived longer than any thing had a right to, and his son hadn't survived to see his first birthday.

They had all told him that it wasn't his fault. That there was nothing he could have done differently.

Angel didn't agree with them. There were so many things he could have -- should have -- done.

He could have opened that damn book and taken Connor to Pylea. Lorne could have watched him while Angel came back to handle things on this end. He could have swallowed his pride and gone to Sunnydale for help.

Or -- and this was where Angel really feared for his own salvation -- he could have simply killed Holtz.

If someone gave him the opportunity for a temporal fold Angel was certain he would take it. He knew exactly what sound the sword would make as it passed through Holtz's ribcage. Bone splintering, the smell of blood that would make him hungry, make him long to drink down all that evil and rage, to keep it trapped within him where he could make it safe, where he could make sure no other children were destroyed before they got a chance to become someone . . .

He was not Superman, and yet he had been given so many chances to grow, to change, to learn... to do Good. What was so goddamned special about him? Was he 'chosen' for this, for this torment that he had inflicted on a thousand others before? Or was this his true punishment at last? Knowing for a few brief months what it meant to nurture, to care, to love so intensely, and then ...

Nothing. To be suddenly hollow. If this was his ultimate penalty for crimes too heinous to mention, too numerous to count, why then did other parents lose children? For what were they being punished? And why was there no Superman to keep them safe? There were heroes, certainly; one of the greatest slept in the bed not ten feet behind him. But she, like all the others, was fallible and so very, very human.

She could not save them all. She could barely even save herself.

From the first moment he'd seen Buffy, he'd wanted nothing more than to keep her safe. A silly, romantic notion he should have known was fruitless. The lives they led did not lend themselves to safekeeping. He would watch her back. He would die for her, if need be. But the one thing he would never be able to do was keep her safe.

If nothing else had taught him this, losing Connor had.

They'd all been in the hotel. Downstairs, laughing. The baby monitor had been on. Cordelia and Gunn had been re-enacting the desperately funny battle they'd fought the night before and Fred had been snorting iced tea out her nose. He remembered laughing. Genuine, deep belly laughter, the kind he hadn't indulged in since that night.

It was Lorne who noticed. It might have been hours if Wesley hadn't started singing . . . Angel couldn't even remember now. Just Wesley's horribly off-key voice and Lorne's bright green skin actually paling.

The Host hadn't spoken. He didn't have to. Something inside of Angel -- fatherly instinct? Predator's cunning? -- knew. He'd taken the stairs at a run, vampiric muscles and tendons working like they never had before.

It was still too late.

Holtz was sitting by Connor's crib. Just sitting there, staring down at Angel's son as though watching him sleep. When he entered the room, Holtz had looked up with a smile that chilled Angel to the depths of his soul. And that soul had already known ((only one heartbeat in the room)) but he was drawn to the crib in spite of himself.

Sometimes, he wished he'd never looked.

Usually, he was sure he deserved that crystal-clear vision now seared into his brain for eternity.

It was Connor who should have been spared.

His grief was eclipsed only by his demon's rage. Holtz took even the satisfaction Angel would have found snapping his neck. The room was eight stories off the ground. Angel's reflexes were stunted by shock. When the police came for the body, they said he was still smiling.

Angel didn't move for days. The others had been on his heels, their grief, their shock, their anger echoing ((but never touching, never even coming close, they don't know, I pray they never know)) his own. They brought him blood, forced it down his throat, but he did not move from the floor by Connor's crib. He let them take his son's ((my little boy, my heart, he's never going to grow up, never going to be a man, never going to get married, never going to eat ice cream, never going to meet Buffy, never going to go to Notre Dame, never going to see Ireland, never going to play hockey)) body, but growled when they tried to touch his things. The toys, the clothes, the mobile that played a tinkling rendition of Ode to Joy... Those items had been all that he had left.

In time they'd coaxed him out of the room. Forced him to take up residence in another, further down the hall. Cordelia and Wesley had gone in to clear out Connor's room while Fred and Gunn kept an eye on him. They were afraid he would harm himself, and the thought had certainly crossed his mind, but somehow . . . he couldn't do it.

He hadn't killed himself after Buffy died, after all. As empty as he'd felt then, the aftermath of Connor's death had been a thousand times worse, but still, he did not entertain notions of suicide. Mostly because it would have been too easy, too cowardly. He would live with what had happened to his son. He would live with the knowledge that he had imposed this kind of pain onto thousands of others.

And he would try until the day that he ceased to be to atone for it.

Sometimes, though, he wondered where Connor was. If he was happy. If there really was such a place as the Summerland, or Heaven, or an afterlife. If reincarnation were possible, his son could already be with someone else, knowing another touch, another father, one who might be able to play with him in the sunshine . . .

He faced out over the city that was his sworn duty to protect, and for the first time in a long time, wept.

* * *

Inside of me...  
Inside of me.

I’m only a man in a funny red sheet.  
I’m only a man looking for a dream.  
I’m only a man in a funny red sheet  
And it’s not easy...

* * *

She woke from the first perfect, restful, dreamless sleep in as long as she could remember, a nagging sensation just below the surface of her consciousness: something was very Wrong. There was pain -- sharp, rending heartpain -- ripping through her, growing sharper by the moment, incompatible with the peaceful sensation of safety and ease she had been drifting in, bringing her instantly to full alertness.

Angel had dreams too, he'd told her... sweet dreams of family, sunshine and togetherness that ripped him apart from the inside far more completely than nightmares of blood, destruction, evil and Hell ever had. She knew right away it was his pain that woke her, and she automatically reached out to soothe him, to hold him... but found his space beside her in the big, soft bed empty.

A split second of panic blinded her, and she sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest.

((OhGodohnoheleftmehe'sgoneI'maloneIcan'tdoitIcan't...))

"Angel?" she called softly into the darkness.

He cleared his throat and replied, his voice rough, "It's okay, Buffy. Go back to sleep."

The sympathetic ache she could feel so clearly even from the land of dreams ((memories)) sharpened, pierced her and made her bleed at the agony in his voice he was trying so hard to hide.

Winding the sheet around her, Buffy rose and approached where he stood by the window, his face turned out to gaze over the sparkling skyline. The city lights reflected in the tears that ran, unchecked, down his regal cheeks. She laid a gentle hand on his arm, but said nothing. What was there to say?

His hand was rubbing his chest, over his heart, the gesture absent-minded and very telling. "I can't . . ." A semi-hysterical bark of laughter escaped his throat. "It's ridiculous, because I don't *need* to, but . . ." Almost a whimper. "Buffy, I can't breathe." The tears cascading down his face continued in earnest and his shoulders began to shake with repressed sobs. "I can't breathe, I can't breathe, he isn't breathing, he doesn't breathe anymore, Buffy, he wasn't breathing and there was nothing I could do, nothing . . . "

Buffy felt her own tears spill in answer to his, and without a thought to what she was doing, or why, or how she could help, she reached out and wrapped her arms around him, drawing his shuddering form down to her breast.

"Oh, my love," she whispered into his hair, stroking his back in long languid circles, as if she could somehow smooth the jagged, bleeding edges of his heart back together with her touch. And oh, God... how she wished she could. Like she had never wished for anything before in her life. "My sweet love...I’m so sorry..."

"He was so still . . ." His words were almost incoherent and his legs could no longer support his weight and he sagged to the floor, taking her with him, collapsing against her, letting her shore him up. "He'd never been that still, not even when he was sleeping and I wanted to pretend he was sleeping but I couldn't because I couldn't hear his heart beating and I could always hear it beating from every room in the house and I heard it stop, I heard it stop but I pretended I didn't because I couldn't . . . I was on the stairs when it stopped. I think of that every time I walk down them. If only I'd been faster, I . . ."

Buffy held him tighter still, held him fiercely to her own heart while he let his pain go... finally expressed all of the things he had refused to acknowledge, let alone share, in all of this time. She tried to will his agony to come in to her -- she could take it, she'd always taken it and gotten through somehow, and she had always been so much less fragile than he was... "You couldn't have changed anything. Angel... It wasn't your *fault*."

"It was," he rasped harshly, clutching her back like a dying man clinging to life. "I should have *been there*. I should have *killed* him before he had the chance to . . ." A breath escaped him that nearly sounded like a death rattle. "There was so much blood . . . he was so little, there shouldn't have *been* that much . . ."

"Angel... honey, shhhhh..." she soothed, stroking every part of him that she could reach, peppering his tearstained face with gentle kisses. "Shhhh..."

It was idiotic... the nonsense sounds... the useless motions... there was no comfort to be had here. No solace, no way to heal these kinds of wounds. His sobbing gutted her like no demon sword ever could... destroyed her like nothing she had experienced in a short and pain-filled life.

She held him until the wracking and choking faded to desperate hitching, and finally, only soft shivers. He was utterly boneless in her arms, his energy, like his grief, spent.

She remembered, a long time ago ((not real, but it felt real...)), when Dawn was four or five, and a car going too fast down their sleepy residential street had clipped the training wheel on her little bicycle. Her sister had gone flying with a glass-shattering wail.

Buffy could still see that flight in flawless, sharp detail in her mind -- the fascinating horror of it... The realization that froze her where she stood not 30 feet away, that Dawn had just been hit by a car. Kids died getting hit by cars. She vaguely recalled screaming for somebodyanybodypleasehelpusmommydaddyDawnshurt!

But the clearest memory of all was of her mother's face. An expression of unutterable rage and terror as she bolted from the house, shrieking Dawn's name so loudly it made every dog on the block howl.

Mom told her, much later, that there was no fear in the universe like that -- the possibility of losing your child, your flesh and blood. It was a constant refrain in the existence of every being that brought young into the world... loved it, cherished it, nurtured it, far above and beyond their own life.

"I wouldn't survive if I lost one of you," she'd whispered, taking Buffy's hand, "I couldn't."

No... there was no balm for this wound on her Angel's soul. But maybe... maybe she could dull its edges... just... the tiniest bit.

And so she opened that last box of secrets in her heart, and hoped that sharing them could provide her broken Angel what little succor might be had.

She rocked him slowly, gently, as though he were the wounded child, and hesitantly began to speak the unspeakable. "Where he is... it's... better, Angel. So much better than here," she murmured, leaning her cheek on top of his head, and let herself remember. "There's no pain... no fear. Nothing but love and peace and joy... and certainty. You know, without any doubt at all, how much the people who you loved, loved you. You know everything. And everything is exactly the way it should be."

She couldn't be certain if it was enough... or if it was anything at all. There weren't words in the stilted, awkward language they spoke to describe that kind of... perfection.

"There is a Heaven, Angel. And Connor's there... and all he'll know, for the rest of eternity, is how much you loved him."

Her words penetrated his grief-fogged mind and he slowly began to come back to himself -- or, more accurately, he began to come back to her. The only things he was truly conscious of were her strong, tender arms wrapped around him and the breath of her words caressing the side of his face. Her words . . . such beautiful words. And the way she spoke of Heaven, how different she was . . .

"Was it really that beautiful there?" he asked quietly, his face still securely tucked against her breast. "So beautiful that you didn't want to leave?"

For a moment, she paused. She had meant to share the sensation of Heaven, without ever having to explain...

But how was that fair? She was looking at the blackest, deepest pain of his soul – cradling it in her arms. How could she not share her own?

Closing her eyes, Buffy whispered, "Yes."

Forcing himself to sit up, Angel faced her fully, pulling her closer until their legs overlapped and he could cup her face between his hands. "Do you know what gives me even a little bit of peace?" he queried, his voice rough.

She blinked her tears away and looked into his eyes. "No..."

Almost in a trance, he brushed the tears off of her cheeks with the rough pads of his thumbs. "Imagining Connor in that place some deity out there thought was worthy of you." His face contorted, his eyes filling with tears again. "Buffy, it almost . . . it almost brings me comfort."

Taking a deep, shuddering breath that heralded yet more tears, she leaned closer to him, resting her hands on either side of his face in return. "That's all I've ever wanted to do, Angel. Ever. I love you... so much. I promised myself I'd never tell anyone what I'd seen... where I'd been. But I couldn't live with myself, seeing you in so much pain, and knowing that... I knew something that might help... just a little. I know it's not..." she swallowed, her voice breaking as her throat tightened. "I know it's not much, but... it's all I have to give you. I know your son is... in H-heaven. I know he is."

"Not much," he mumbled, brushing her cheeks with his thumbs, quiet desperation in his touch. "It's everything, Buffy. It's more than I deserve; more than most people get." He stared at her intensely. "I'm so sorry for how hard everything must be for you."

She laughed... a wretched, bitter sound. "For me? You're kidding, right?"

He shook his head. "Buffy, we're not . . . what we're going through isn't entirely dissimilar." He looked at her carefully. "We both knew a near-perfect euphoric state . . . and it was violently ripped away from us." He brushed the hair back from her face. "Just because what you lost was a state of being . . . doesn't mean you're not allowed to mourn."

She couldn't quite look him in the eye. "I don't think it's the same. Not even a little. But... thank you."

Privately, he thought that what she had suffered might possibly be worse than what he'd gone through -- but he decided against sharing that bit of information with her. Instead, he gave her a little smile of gratitude. "It is getting better," he murmured, half trying to convince her, half vehemently wanting to believe it himself.

She cocked her head to the side. "What is?"

"Everything," he answered, still touching her face lightly with the pads of his fingers. "Our lives, our mental states, the pain . . . it *is* getting better . . ." ((Isn't it? Please, lie to me if you have to, just tell me it's getting better.))

She gave him the best smile she could manage. "It must be. I mean... we just... and I didn't... and I said that word out loud." With a chuckle, she added. "Although, my powers of speech don't seem to be improving any."

Buffy reached up and mimicked his gentle caress on the proud lines of his face. "It is getting better. Being with you... I honestly never thought it would happen again. I thought... I really thought it was over. So... I guess..." She gave a woeful sigh. "Yes. It is getting better."

And as if to prove it, she leaned closer, and gently touched her lips to his.

Life. That was what it felt like to kiss Buffy. It felt like life. "I missed you," he whispered into their kiss.

His gentle whisper -- not the words so much as the soul-deep feeling behind them -- echoed inside the last of her empty places, flooding them with bittersweet, beautiful warmth. She pulled him closer, deepening the kiss, hoping that that was more than enough to tell him how much she'd missed him. How wrong everything had been without him in her life. How sorry she was that she hadn't gone to him in all the time she was falling apart... how deeply she regretted that she had been unable to reach out to him the way he had her.

"There's never been anyone else," she murmured, trailing her lips to the corner of his mouth, brushing them over the edges of his jaw. "Only you."

If only that were true, he thought, though again, he did not give voice to it. This was not the time for such thoughts, such petty details. There had never been anyone else. It *felt* true. "I'm so glad you're with me," he whispered. "I'm so damn happy I don't have to face everything without you anymore." His hands rested lightly on her hips, reinforcing the connection between them.

Buffy rose up on her knees between his legs, gently tilting his face up with her fingertips. As she did so, the sheet around her body drifted to her waist . . . and she barely noticed. There would be no protective layers between them any longer. Gravely, she vowed to him, "You don't. Ever again. You'll never be alone. I promise."

She bent down to kiss him again, more fiercely, this time... with all her pain and longing flowing like lava through her blood... from her skin to his. It wasn't darkness she feared. Or being alone... or never making it back to Heaven. It was a life without him... without his unshakable loyalty. His undying friendship. His love. As much as she had adored him when she was young -- with the pure, mindless passion of the very naive -- it couldn't hold even the smallest candle to what she felt for him now. How he was the cornerstone of her sanity. The one person on the face of the planet whose trust she need never question. The one person who truly knew her. She had been afraid to let him see her shadows... to ruin that perfect pedestal princess she always imagined lived in his heart. But they were different, now. Neither held any illusions about Perfect Happiness... life was painful. Life was losing -- yourself, the people you loved, and eventually, life itself. As long as they could share the journey, that burden could only be lightened between them.

Her hands slipped down over his shoulders... skimmed the hard lines of his chest... wandered lower. All the while, she whispered to him. "I can't promise we'll never hurt again... or even that we'll never hurt each other. But Angel... it all means something. That we're here, together? After everything? You were right... we were meant to come here, now. I love you. I'll love you until the end of the universe, and beyond. I love you more than life. More than the air I breathe. I love you, and if I can take even a little of the pain away, it would be worth never going back to Heaven again. Here, with you... it's close enough."

"Heaven," he murmured, his body -- his soul -- reacting equally to her touch and her words. Buffy had always been so shy with him, so guarded with her heart, so fearful of having it torn out. The woman she had become was still afraid, but she overcame that fear because she loved him enough to put his needs before her terror. "Love . . . Heaven has always been wherever you are," he whispered into her ear.

She opened her eyes and stared deeply into his. Still kneeling above him, she gently traced every tiny detail of his beautiful face. There wasn't a thing she'd forgotten. Not the turn of his cheekbones, the particular cut of his brow, the path of his hairline. Beautiful. When she had finished drawing him with her fingers, she bent down and followed the same familiar paths with her lips. The curve of his ears, the tendons in his throat. Her hands led the way, and she followed... broad, strong shoulders and back, the bearers of so much of the same burden as she... and more. She moved behind him... kissed a line of her love and gratitude down his spine, caressed the tension from his arms, and then came to kneel before him again, kicking away the last of the sheet entangled in her legs and exposing the length of her bare body to the cool air, the moonlight, and his gaze. "I don't want to be afraid anymore, Angel. Of anything. But especially not of us."

His gaze was riveted to her body. "Do you know . . . can you even imagine how beautiful you are to me?" He breathed the words, awed at her, at her bravery, her unselfishness. His fingertips went to work again, this time barely brushing against her arms, the underside of her breasts, and the curve of her belly . . . humbled by her trust in him.

Her first instinct was to hide from the intensity in his eyes... the nearly palpable pressure of his gaze touching her as deeply as his hands. But she wouldn't hide from him. Not anymore. She gently laid her hand over the one that cupped her breast, reached out to wind the fingers of the other in his hair, and drew him forward.

Her gentle urging was all the prompting he needed to press his mouth fully to hers. The sureness in her touch warmed him and he cupped her breast more fully, his other hand sliding around her back to cup her rear end, pulling her in closer contact with his body.

With a sigh, she shifted forward until her torso was flush with his, his face in line with her breasts. "I need your touch, Angel. I need to feel you." She urged his head downward with a gentle push. Taking control. Leading the way to a place where they could both be healed. "Please... "

Groaning in anticipation, with relief, with joy that she could feel this comfortable with him, Angel darted his tongue out to take a taste of her skin. It seemed longer than a few brief hours since he'd lasted sampled it, and he couldn't resist the lure of her tight little nipple, begging for his attention. His lips closed around it and he gently began to suckle, taking as much comfort and pleasure from the act as he hoped she did. One of his hands remained securely fastened to her other breast, gently teasing its nipple with the pad of his thumb; the fingers of his free hand traced slow, gentle circles over her lower back; danced over the curve of her rear; teased the backs of her closed thighs.

Buffy moaned deep in her chest, pressing him closer, and took his growing erection in her free hand. The apprehension, the dismay... the ghosts that had whispered to her earlier, making her hesitate, were gone, and in their place a wonder at the fact that he could still have so much to give... so much love, when he had lost so much. She stroked him softly, reaching beneath to caress his testicles, test their weight, roll them gently between her fingers, and then move back up again. After a moment, she pulled away, placed her hands on his shoulders and gently urged him back on the floor.

He was her willing slave, allowing her to maneuver him however she liked. And not just because she had her preternaturally strong hand on his genitals.

Keeping constant eye contact with him, Buffy slid downward onto her belly, nestled firmly between his legs. She kissed the head of his shaft, flicking her tongue gently over the glistening tip, even as she continued to caress him firmly in her hand. "I love your body," she purred, letting her long-chained vixen loose just that tiniest bit. There were no secrets here, between them. "I love the way you respond to me. I love to touch you. You're so amazing."

"God!" He hissed, a harsh, sudden exhalation of air through clenched teeth. She'd barely touched him, yet the slightest flick of her tiny pink tongue had him ready to weep. He loved the vixen that lived inside of her; he rejoiced, also, because he'd been afraid he might never get to play with her again and they'd had such little time together before . . . "You're the one who's amazing," he managed to groan, the tone of his voice full of laughter and warmth. How had she brought that back to him so quickly?

She relished the feeling of power... this new feeling... this different power. As hokey as it sounded even in her mind... the power of their love. A desire born from something right and, if not pure, than at least Good. To give him pleasure, to make him feel something besides the agony of his losses... it was more gift than she had ever felt worthy of receiving. She licked him from root to tip and back again, drawing her tongue firmly along his foreskin, gently rolling his balls between the fingers of one hand, while following the path of her mouth with the other, wrapped tightly around his pulsing cock.

A bone-melting groan left his mouth and he unconsciously lifted his hips toward the warmwet haven of her mouth. His hands found purchase in her hair and he began to gently scratch his short, blunt fingernails over her scalp, tightening his grip sporadically every time she hit an especially sensitive spot.

She devoured him hungrily, lapping and laving every inch of him until she was so starved to have him inside her the need was almost desperate. She sealed her lips tightly around his shaft, and sucked him deep into the back of her throat. The cool velvetsteel taste of him sent a shock of bliss through her body, a deep, wet throbbing between her legs. Humming, she drew him slowly out, never relenting in her grip with either hand or mouth, making love to him with all the passion and desire that blazed through her entire being.

Angel banged his head against the floor once, sharply, to keep from spilling down her throat. "Buffy," he whimpered, his fingers tightening in her hair again, "Jesus, Buffy, I'm going to . . . you have to stop, I want to be . . ." He was thinking of the right words in his head, but whatever synapse expressed thought to vocal chords had been fried with the wethotpleasure of her mouth.

With a secret smile, she released him from her mouth, but kept a slightly slower, more gentle pressure with her hand. "I want you to, Angel... I want to feel you let go. Taste you," she murmured, and without further preamble, proceeded to wipe from his memory every act of oral sex that had ever been performed on him. She felt him press past her tonsils... relaxed her throat ((one good thing Spike taught me)) and took him as deeply as the limits of her body would allow, then drew him out again, sucking, licking and stroking in time with his body's own preternatural pulse.

Another crack of his skull against the floor -- this time, in crucial, ecstatic relief -- and he emitted a nearly inhuman howl of fulfillment, his hips thrusting up toward her face as she sucked from his body every single drop of rapture he had inside of him. It spread through him from head to toe, then spilled down her throat as satisfaction began to move through him like a fever.

The sound of his pleasure was almost enough to push her over the edge right there. But she wasn't done yet... it had been so long since she had felt good about the power of her body... lain with someone who cared not only about their own pleasure, but hers, and theirs together. So long since forms and spirits were entwined, balanced.

She drank him down eagerly, moaning at the saltysweet taste of him, and even as he relaxed beneath her, she continued to lick and gently stroke his softening member.

Unnecessary panting filled the room as he tried to clear his vision. There was nothing but white, and that worried him until he realized it was just the ceiling. Forcing himself to raise his head, he looked down at Buffy and through the hazy completion that was flowing through him . . . felt himself stir, a spark of desire re-igniting at the image she presented attending to his softened penis.

"Buffy . . ." he murmured, partly confused, but mostly aroused.

"Mmm?" she mumbled, not slowing her attentions.

"Nothing," he mumbled back at her, collapsing against the floor as he tried to regain some of his strength. Let her do whatever she pleased with his body; he'd be her willing, loving slave.

She chuckled at his surrender, eager to put that legendary vampiric stamina to the test. As she suckled him and felt him once again harden in her mouth, she almost cheered in triumph. Maybe letting loose with Spike, though ugly and misguided at its core, had brought with it the blessings of learning how to truly pleasure a vampire's body. Letting him slip from her mouth once again, she pressed her chest to his groin, and continued stroking him, rubbing him between her breasts.

"Does that feel good, baby?" she whispered.

Propping himself up on his elbows, because Dear God, was she really . . . Her skin was so warm, her hand around him had been magic, but this . . . he let out a moan. "Good," he whispered, reaching a hand down to softly stroke her shoulders, the curve of her jaw. "God, you feel so good . . . I can't . . . I can't imagine what I ever did to deserve you, but I'm so grateful I did it." He knew he wasn't quite making sense, but Jesus, she was . . . with her breasts . . .

She smiled softly at him, feeling tears once again press against her eyes. "You are just you," she whispered, and languorously climbed his body until they were face to face once more. "Just you. That's all I want. All I need." She pressed her wet core against him, and with a moan, her eyes slipped shut. "Aaangel. God..." Reaching between them, she reclaimed his now erect penis, and rubbed him slowly up and down her aching, throbbing slit, stimulating her clitoris. "It's so good... Ahhh... hot... sweet... never... had both before..." Passion and tenderness. Consuming, devouring fire, and soft, gentle comfort. Angel.

He let out a hiss, one of his hands moving to her hip, stroking her skin, aiding her movement against him. Every drop of love, of sweet, selfless desire he'd ever known had come from her, because of her. His free hand, he brought back to her breast, cupping its luscious weight against his palm; flicking the nipple with his thumb. "I want to give you everything," he whispered hoarsely. "Everything you've never had and always wanted."

"Yes," she sighed, and looked into his eyes once more. "I want it all, with you. And I want to watch you come inside of me... right now..."

She rose up higher on her knees, and guided him that first inch into her entrance with a gasp of blissful shock. She teased him with the edges of her muscles, gripping just the tip of him inside of her, as she continued caressing the root with her hand.

"Jesus," he hissed again, wondering if Buffy would help him find religion yet. Certainly not conventional religion, but some form of Slayer worship, perhaps . . . except his faith was utterly singular, belonging only to the woman above him, surrounding him, tantalizing him . . . "You first," he managed to grit out, still gently caressing her breast with one hand, the other slipping lower so that his thumb could gently slide over her clit.

"Ah!" she cried out, taken by surprise at his tender strike. She was halfway there already, from touching him, hot just from making him come, and she immediately felt the first shocks of what promised to be incredible bliss ripping through her. "Yes. God, Angel," she moaned, rocking against him, thrusting her breasts and sex into his hands.

His hips moved of their own accord, natural instinct prompting him to sink himself as far inside of her body as he could go. He let the rhythm of her hips set their pace, as well as the friction of his thumb against her clit. With his other hand, he began to pinch her nipple, lightly, exerting just enough pressure to make it count. "That's my girl," he murmured, glad for the previous orgasm she'd so selflessly bestowed upon him, allowing him enough control to take her with him. "Let me see you."

For a split second, the memory of those words from a very different mouth began to slither into her mind. She never let it form. He was gone forever. And she WAS this vampire's girl.

She rose up on her knees and rode him harder, moaning deeply in time with his thrusts, never taking her gaze from his. She brought her hands up to her chest, caressing the hand attending to one breast, while mimicking his actions herself with the other. "Mmmm.. it's so good... with you... inside of me," she panted, sliding him in and out of her with increasing force and speed. "I want you deeper. Deeper, Angel... harder."

She was a Goddess and she was *his* and she was magnificent. "Deeper," he agreed, angling his hips for a deeper, rougher penetration. The sight of her tiny hand playing with her own breast, giving herself pleasure . . .The hand she covered with her own, he turned until he could grasp hers, bringing it down between her legs, urging her to touch herself. "Show me, love," he urged huskily, letting his now free hand clutch her hip firmly, giving him the opportunity to thrust with more pressure, more accuracy. "Let me see how good you feel."

"Uhn, yes..." she gasped, slipping her finger into her own wetness, feeling him move inside of her. The sensation of their bodies pulsing, rocking together, his hand on hers as she touched herself, driving him home and home and home...

Throwing her head back, she cried, "Angel! YES! NOW OH GOD! NOW!"

With a vicious, guttural grunt, he came inside her with a muffled "Buffy!" as he bowed up from the floor, burying his face against her chest.

She let out a long string of frantic, grunting cries as she exploded around him, feeling him fill her, soothe her, cool her from the inside. She wrapped her arms around him and held him close, still arching onto him. "I love you... so much... "

He was beyond speech, feeling her clench around him, those superstrongslayermuscles making his eyes roll up into the back of his head, draining him dry, emptying him so that she could fill him up again with her love, her comfort, her sweet, sweet bliss. His hips continued to thrust weakly long after he was spent, his hands stroking her back in wide, uneven waves, loath to stop touching her for even a second.

Still wrapped tightly around him, she dissolved in his arms, let the aftershocks take her, making her shiver from head to foot. She giggled softly as he eased back down to the floor, taking her with him.

"Normally, laughter after sex might make a guy a little insecure," he murmured, grinning a little himself, "but since I'd cut off my right arm to make you laugh . . . I'm going to take it as a compliment." He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, holding her closer still.

"I can't help it," she giggled. "God, I can't believe..." She rolled off of him and reclaimed the sheet from the floor, but only wrapped it around her feet. "Can I tell you something that's... sort of disturbing?"

"More disturbing than any of the other things we've shared tonight?" he asked, an eyebrow cocked. He had rolled onto his side and propped his head up on his arm, his hand moving to rest lightly over her belly.

Buffy beamed... which felt just as silly as the giggling and she was able to knock it off just as well. "Mm. Well, it's not really one of my more heroic moments."

"I'm familiar with those, too," he assured her quietly, an unpretentiousness between them he'd never felt before. With anyone. He let his palm, his fingers, trail up and down her torso, concentrating on her stomach as though she were a nervous child he was trying to soothe. And for the first time in as long as he could recall, the word "child" didn't make him want to crumble into a heap of dust.

She sighed and closed her eyes. "When Spike and I first... started, there was this... thing with the geeks and the demons in the woods," she turned to look down at him. "Did I tell you about that? When I thought I killed that woman? The time wonky thing?"

"Katrina," he said after a moment of thought. "You only told me that you did finally realize you were under a spell of some kind. That it made you think about Faith."

Buffy nodded, and slid down to lie beside him once more, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy circles around his chest. "Well... I was going to tell the police, but I overheard the cop say her name. But... before that..."

"Before that," he prompted gently after a moment of silence, his arm around her back now, gently stroking her hip.

"Spike tried to stop me. Outside the police station. And... I lost it. I mean totally. I freaked right out on him. I mean... here I was, trying to do the right thing, even though Faith and I might end up next door neighbors for the rest of this century, and he comes along and starts harping on me not to throw my life away!" She snorted, shaking her head. "He might as well have just stood there shouting, "I DON'T HAVE A CONSCIENCE! I'M EVIL! SOMEBODY STAKE ME!" So... I hit him."

He stared at her for a moment, then shook himself. "I'm sorry, is the part where I'm supposed to be disturbed?"

She shot him a look. "He *was* trying to help in his very special, psychotically twisted way. But no... that's not the disturbing part. He, um... when I hit him... he said... " She swallowed deeply. "He said 'that's my girl.' Then... I totally snapped, and... pounded the crap out of him. I mean... big time. More than he deserved, at that point." Trailing off, she picked a piece of lint off the sheet beside where his hand lay on her hip. "It was like... he was stepping on that part of me that I kept from him... that belonged to you." She raised her head and smiled at him. "That still belongs to you. But I... I was screaming at him. About him not having a soul... to have him say anything that you ever said to me... it was like he was trying to make himself into you, and it made me sick. I might have killed him with my bare hands."

His hand drifted up to her face and he stroked her skin; pushed her hair away from her eyes. "He touched something inside of you that you didn't give him permission to," he murmured. "He violated it. And when you violate a Slayer, you're playing some pretty deep odds." He considered her for a moment. "I'm not exactly unfamiliar with the idea of nearly killing Spike with my bare hands."

She blushed at the compliment to her Slayerness... yet another part of her that she felt was bruised by Spike. That she had lain with the enemy... and liked it. Most of her brain still balked at the idea. Then, the other thing he'd said finally registered. She propped herself up on one elbow and peered suspiciously at him. "Did you kill him, Angel?"

"Does it matter?" he hedged.

With a mock glare, she warned. "No cryptic. I'm making it officially against the rules." She softened again. "I just need to know. What happened that night? And why were we never cursed with his presence again?"

He winced a little, looking down, breaking her gaze. "The term 'pounded the crap out of'?"

"Yes..." she urged.

"That's like a slap on the wrist compared to what I did to him," he confessed, still not meeting her gaze. He was ashamed that he lost control like that, and more than a little -- unsure? -- that she might be put out with him over his treatment of Spike. The other vampire had hurt her, yes, but she had also been with him for the better part of a year . . . "But I didn't kill him. Just made it clear that if he so much as tried to take your hand to help you up, I'd make him wish he was never spawned."

In spite of Buffy's better judgment, a wave of relief washed over her. Followed quickly by a wave of love and admiration for the Champion beside her. She smiled. "Thank you. For doing that for me. And for not killing him. It really wasn't his fault. He was just being himself. I always knew that. But... thank you."

His head snapped back up and he looked into her eyes. He concentrated, trying to sense any hidden recriminations . . then smiled a little in alleviation at finding none. "I was afraid you might be a little . . . pissed . . . at me for fighting your battles."

Buffy shrugged. "I wasn't really in a position to do any fighting, then." She gently traced his lips. "It means a lot that... you picked up my slack."

"That's what I'm here for, right?" He leaned in close to her face, brushing his nose against hers, kissing her fingertips, whispering against them roughly, solemnly, "I've got your back, love."

The beaming commenced once more. "I have yours, too. Always. But... could you do me one little favor?"

"Anything," he agreed with a smile.

She brushed a little kiss to the tip of his nose. "I love you very much, but please... can you not call me luv?"

* * *

"It’s not easy  
To be me."


End file.
